


Blind Man's Bluff

by Rae666



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blindness, Friendship, Gen, Murder, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rae666/pseuds/Rae666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We are gods among mortals. But even gods must be tested." Sherlock loses his sight temporarily and must rely on his other senses and John in order to solve the case at hand. But as the killer draws closer, could the pair be in more danger than they first thought?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. I wish I did but I'm just not that lucky. I am, however, lucky enough to be able to write about them.
> 
> Story notes/warnings: Timeline wise I'd say this could be set either just before episode 1.03 (The Great Game) or after it so basically – spoilers for season 1.
> 
> A/N: I could claim I'm not obsessed with Sherlock at the moment but that would be an out and out lie. And so, I've been working on this fic. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

Chapter 1

 

Crime scenes, as a rule, don’t generally speak. Being crime scenes, they’re just… there – being a crime scene. Perhaps it is because crime scenes, much like the police officers milling about them, know the importance of not speaking a particular name. Unfortunately, it seemed no one had informed this specific crime scene.

 

 _This_ crime scene didn’t so much speak that particular name as scream it from the top of its non-existent lungs.

 

Even so, denial lingered in the air.

 

The lower officer’s exchanged knowing glances. Unlike the crime scene, they knew better than to say anything out loud. They had witnessed what happened to those who did. For them, they had discovered that mentioning a particular name, even if it were in casual conversation, would surely mean being sentenced to desk duty - the painful kind of desk duty that involved photocopiers and printer jams.

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade took one look at the body of the dead woman before him and felt his chest tighten. Dread washed over him and as he pulled his phone from his pocket, he was sure he could actually hear the rolling of eyes. Of course, he was partly right in this as the man standing with him in the doorway did in fact roll his eyes at that precise moment – though whether a definite sound had been made was debatable.

 

That man, Anderson, had no problem expressing his disapproval of the name that was on everyone’s minds but no one’s lips – the crime scene didn’t count as, technically, it didn’t have lips.

 

“You’ve got to be joking. We haven’t even started yet,” Anderson complained, eyeing the phone in Lestrade’s hand with distaste.

 

But Lestrade was not joking – he rarely joked about such things. He had learned very early on that when that particular name was raised, it was no laughing matter.

 

His eyes landed on the small off-white envelope beside the body. “We’re going to need his help on this one.”

 

After all, it is so rare for a crime scene to speak that it would have been unwise not to listen if one ever should. And this crime scene spoke quite clearly.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” it screamed and much to the dismay of several officers of the law, DI Lestrade had to agree.

 

\-----

 

Much like crime scenes should really be incapable of speech, flats are often found to be incapable of thought, though perhaps it is merely that they are incapable of expressing such thought that is the problem. But should they be capable, they would have many a secret to share.

 

Should 221b Baker Street be capable of thought, it would have many a complaint to make to its owner, Mrs. Hudson. But landladies rarely listened to their abodes, for the occupants tended to be much too loud – no matter how many bullet holes lined the wall or how many broken vials of acid and other such liquids littered the kitchen floor.

 

John Watson took one look at the mess and knew instantly the inevitability of the situation at hand. His lips thinned and he raised his eyes, from the glass and acid eating away at the flooring, to look at his dark-haired flatmate instead. “I take it we’re eating out then?”

 

“Eating?” Sherlock Holmes questioned, glancing up from his work and toward John with a bemused ‘what is this word you speak of’ expression firmly sitting on his features. “Who said anything about eating?”

 

“I did, for one,” John answered, edging a little more into what was meant to be the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw another spill and couldn’t decide whether it was more acid or just plain water.

 

Sherlock returned his attention to a beaker that had started bubbling over, replying in bored dismissal, “Food is unimportant.”

 

Eyes closing briefly, John shook his head.  A small thought niggled at the back of his mind. “When was the last time you ate, Sherlock? I mean, you _have_ eaten today, right?”

 

“Don’t ask questions that you already know the answers to, John,” the darker-haired man berated distractedly, his fingers moving up to sit just below his chin as if in silent prayer, eyes observing what was floating in the centre of the beaker of acid. “It wastes both your time and my own.”

 

“So does avoiding the question.”

 

Grey-blue eyes rose enough to consider the tawny-haired man but the owner of said eyes remained silent.

 

“You haven’t eaten then.” John let go of breath.

 

“I don’t have time to eat,” was the response as Sherlock danced around the spills of acid to reach a small Petri dish on the kitchen counter. With the same lithe movements, he edged back up to the overflowing beaker.

 

“Of course you have time to eat because normal people make time to eat.” John tipped his head to the side, watching the man before him pour the contents of the dish into the beaker. As he did this, he realised the mistake in his own words. “But then you’re not normal, are you?”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer, focusing his attention instead on the reaction taking place in the beaker. John found his own eyes drawn to what was going on and though he was sure he didn’t want to know, his brain was too slow to stop his mouth from asking.

 

“Oh God… Are those fingernails? _Human_ fingernails?”

 

“Well of course they’re human – I couldn’t very well use an animal’s nails to prove my theory, could I?”

 

“And just what theory are you trying to prove?”

 

Sherlock raised his eyes, mouth opening ready with an in-depth response. What came instead was a _beep beep_ from his phone and his response fell away, his gaze going back to the experiment. “Could you get that for me, John?”

 

John huffed a little but did as the man asked, taking up the phone from the counter. His mind still attempted to catch up with the current topic of conversation as he gave up trying to remember what the original purpose of it had been.

 

“It’s Lestrade,” John informed his flatmate, opening the new message on the phone and reading it in silence. “He wants your help.”

 

At that, the taller man narrowed his gaze and looked up once more, curiosity settling in his eyes. He considered the idea of helping the Detective Inspector for a mere moment before shaking his head. His eyes dropped back the beaker and he lowered himself to better stare into the clear liquid inside. “I’m busy.”

 

“You’re busy?” John questioned, unconvinced by Sherlock’s words. He knew, as well as the consulting detective, that his lack of enthusiasm was nothing to do with being busy. “You mean it’s not interesting enough.”

 

“How could I possibly know whether or not it’s interesting enough without first hearing the details?” Though it was phrased as a question, John knew the man wasn’t seeking an answer. For whatever logical reason, Sherlock had decided that the case was beneath him. What John didn’t know was that the lack of details was the cause for that.

 

“Yes, how could you possibly know?” John rolled his eyes, sarcasm dripping from his drawn out words.

 

The phone beeped once more. This time he didn’t wait for Sherlock’s instruction to read the message. “He says it’s important and involves a note.”

 

“A note?” Sherlock stood, his eyes darting about the room as he processed the information. “Just the one note?”

 

An ever so slightly exasperated sigh slipped past John’s lips. “Maybe you should ask him as he’s the one with the crime scene.”

 

In one short moment, the taller man went from contemplative and still to lively and alert, a flurry of movements as he sprung forward, abandoning his experiment. He already had his coat halfway on before he looked to John expectantly. “Well?”

 

“Oh, you want to go now?” John asked, turning to face the man as he mocked him. He circled his hands in mid air, moving to point behind him at the mess still in the kitchen. “Shall I just see to the Bunsen burner so we have a home to come back to?”

 

“If you would, please, that is an excellent idea. I’ll meet you outside when you’re ready.” Ignorant of the frustration on his flatmate’s face, Sherlock smiled and took his phone from the doctor’s loose grip. “And do be quick, John. Detective Inspector Lestrade will be waiting for us.”

 

\-----

 

As the consulting detective had stated, DI Lestrade was waiting for the pair. He was not alone.

 

Sergeant Donovan stood with him, lost in her conversation with Anderson. She was not so lost though to end it abruptly, both parties taking an unconscious step back and away from each other as a taxi pulled up and Sherlock climbed out. They thought they were in the clear and had not been noticed.

 

They were wrong.

 

“Good evening, Donovan, Anderson,” Sherlock said as he approached the tape, a smile firmly on his lips. He said nothing else. He didn’t need to.

 

“Freak,” Donovan greeted in reply, hostility clear in her voice and face. She raised the tape without question. Had Lestrade not been there it would have been a different story – you didn’t need to be the world’s only consulting detective to see that much.

 

Sherlock slipped under the tape with the ease of a feline and moved on toward Lestrade without another glance to the Sergeant. John, however, nodded in thanks as he trailed closely behind, offering her a friendly smile for her trouble. He had noted once to Sherlock that he didn’t think she liked him all that much, to which Sherlock had replied, “Nonsense, John. Sergeant Donovan neither likes nor dislikes you. Now, me on the other hand – I don’t think ‘detest’ would be strong enough a word.”

 

And upon reflection, John had to admit that there was a definite air of indifference to her attitude. He still hadn’t decided whether or not that was a good thing.

 

Lestrade led the way and, after donning the appropriate blue suited attire, they entered the crime scene.

 

“Five minutes,” he said, standing guard by the door.

 

“Five minutes?” Sherlock repeated in question, his eyes already moving in rapid succession from point to point across the scene and body. “A whole three more than you usually give me.”

 

He dropped to his haunches, moving the tail of his coat back and out of the way in one fluid motion as he did so. Inch by inch, his eyes considered the dead woman before him, taking in every aspect, every little visual detail from the colour of her nails to the quality and cut of her diamond earrings.

 

“What do you think?” he questioned, stopping in his search long enough to meet his flatmate’s gaze.

 

“Uh,” John started, giving himself that internal shake needed to remind him that he wasn’t just there to observe Sherlock at work – though sometimes he did wonder if that was exactly why Sherlock brought him along.

 

He joined the taller man beside the woman, examining her closely.

 

“Well?” Sherlock asked, after a short drawn out silence, and the doctor drew back a little.

 

“No physical trauma to speak of,” John answered, swallowing the small lump in his throat. “So more likely something internal – heart possibly but she’s too young for heart problems…”

 

“Which means?” Sherlock interrupted, more eager, less impatient, waiting for John to reach his conclusion.

 

“Poison possibly?” the doctor questioned, narrowing his eyes on his flatmate.

 

“Two minutes,” Lestrade called from the doorway, his voice a low grumble as he reminded the consulting detective of his time limit.

 

But Sherlock was already done. He pushed to his feet and faced the Detective Inspector. “You mentioned a note.”

 

“We’ll get to the note – first tell me what you’ve got about her.”

 

Sherlock glanced to the body. “Professional escort – her drink no doubt poisoned by her client. The question is why. It can’t be theft or he would have taken all of her jewellery, not just her necklace. So possible jealousy – the necklace a gift he gave her and decided to take back.”

 

“Escort? You’re just messing with me, aren’t you?”

 

Sherlock shook his head, impatience fast setting in. “The way she’s dressed, the expense of her jewellery – she wants to show off, likes to, but she doesn’t do it just for attention. There is an element of professionalism, the colours toned down just enough to show she’s serious but not too much that she won’t be noticed – she wants to stand out. And the jewellery, she wouldn’t buy it for herself – too expensive. They’re gifts from admirers – clients.”

 

He took a breath and circled the body, pointing to each piece of jewellery in turn. “The earrings don’t match the bracelet or the watch – different designs from different jewellers. When buying gifts like that, you would try to complete the set. So different designs,” he said, raising one hand and then the other as he continued to speak, “most likely different men.”

 

“And how, exactly, does that make her an escort?” Lestrade asked, eyeing the man before him carefully.

 

John nodded in agreement to the DI’s uncertainty. “She could have just had a lot of boyfriends.”

 

Sherlock blinked at both men. “Your simple mindedness never fails to amaze me. No, these aren’t gifts from lovers – she wouldn’t wear them all at the same time if they were. Questions would be asked, suspicions would be raised.” He paused and raised an eyebrow at Lestrade. “Or would you fail to notice if your wife started wearing a pair of expensive earrings that you didn’t buy her?”

 

Rhetorical question, or so Lestrade hoped, because he refused to answer it, grumbling instead.

 

“Check her bag,” Sherlock continued. “You’ll find her business card no doubt, and a diary. That should tell you who she was meant to be meeting tonight.”

 

“And what about the necklace?” John asked, his fingers running along the neckline of the dead woman. He could see it now, the same thing Sherlock had seen.

 

“Dressed like that, she must have been wearing a necklace and she wouldn’t be so careless as to lose it. Small scratch marks on her neck suggest it was removed by force.” He spun on his heel, coat floating briefly on the current created by the movement. “Now, the note?”

 

Lestrade let go of a frustrated sigh and turned his head to the side, digging into his pocket for the evidence bag that sat there. His eyes moved about the small room, checking for any unwanted visitors – a paranoid habit he had never been able to break since first meeting Sherlock and allowing him to look at a crime scene. He was always waiting for that time when his superiors would seriously reprimand him.

 

“Here,” he grunted, handing the bag to Sherlock.

 

With practiced ease, Sherlock opened the bag and tipped the small envelope out into his open and waiting hand. He turned it over, holding it up to his face. He ran a fingertip along the edges of the flap and then finally, he pulled the note out.

 

“Interesting,” he hummed, unfolding the note and looking down at the contents. There was no actual note to speak of, no written words anyway, just a complicated symbol printed in the centre of the paper.

 

“What’s interesting?” John asked. He slid up next to his flatmate and gazed over the paper. Whilst he had to agree that the intricate symbol was interesting, he hadn’t the faintest idea of what any of it meant.

 

Sherlock bounced back, lifting the note and it’s envelope into the air in excitement and causing John to make use of his quickened soldier reflexes in order to avoid being knocked over. “This isn’t a jealous admirer. A jealous admirer wouldn’t leave us this.”

 

“And just what is… _this_?” John motioned to the paper, wishing, not for the first time, that he could see inside of the consulting detective’s mind.

 

Said consulting detective set to pacing the small area, his movements animated and smile growing as his eyes still darted back and forth, connecting the invisible dots in his mind. “What do you do when you want someone to know you’ve been somewhere? You leave a note or a card – a _calling_ card. This is a calling card. Oh, this is just brilliant!”

 

“I thought only serial killers left calling cards at crime scenes?” John watched Sherlock through puzzled eyes which widened when the taller man stopped his pacing abruptly and turned to face him, a grin splitting his face – like a child discovering a new toy or an axe-murderer discovering a new axe.

 

“Exactly, John. Exactly. A serial killer.” His thoughts were turned inward once more, body stilling and eyes falling even as the energy still buzzed throughout him, constantly searching for an outlet. “Now, why would a serial killer take her necklace? A trophy? No, that’s not it… it’s something else.”

 

John was still lost on the serial killer comment though, his mind not even attempting to ask why the necklace was so important – he would leave that to Sherlock.

 

“This was a serial killer?” the tawny-haired man questioned, looking between his flatmate and the DI uncertainly. “But this is the only body, right? Don’t you need more than one victim to have a serial killer? That’s why they’re called serial.”

 

“That’s the beauty of it,” Sherlock answered. “This is the first. This is the start.” His eyes fell to Lestrade, waiting to see if the man objected and when he didn’t, Sherlock knew he was right in his assumption. They had themselves a serial killer who was just starting out.

 

“So if this _is_ a serial killer,” Lestrade started, cautious with his words as he considered the man before him, and God help him, he knew that Sherlock was rarely wrong about such things. “Why did he choose her and how do we stop him?”

 

Mouth quirked upward in one corner, Sherlock faced Lestrade, his eyes practically sparkling from excitement. “I have absolutely no idea but I intend to find out.”

 

He handed the note and envelope back to the Detective Inspector as he strode past the man, his thoughts well ahead of his footsteps.

 

For a man who knew everything simply by deducing it, he seemed perfectly ignorant to the notion that perhaps a particular crime scene had been screaming his name for a reason. But then, even if he had noticed – and when questioned later he would deny that he had – it didn’t matter to him because this… _this_ was exciting and brilliant and in no way boring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We are gods among mortals. But even gods must be tested." Sherlock loses his sight temporarily and must rely on his other senses and John in order to solve the case at hand. But as the killer draws closer, could the pair be in more danger than they first thought?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. I wish I did but I'm just not that lucky. I am, however, lucky enough to be able to write about them.
> 
> Warnings: Timeline wise I'd say this could be set either just before episode 1.03 (The Great Game) or after it so basically – spoilers for season 1.

Chapter 2

 

Sherlock, being Sherlock, had memorised the symbol the killer had left behind. John, being John, had copied it down into his notebook.

 

Two snakes, they both agreed on that, entwined with one another inside of a rectangle. Both snakes curved in such a way that they took the form of the letter ‘S’. Again, both flatmates agreed. They disagreed, however, over the importance of this.

 

“Maybe his name is Steven or Simon,” John suggested inside of the cab.

 

“Oh God, I hope not,” Sherlock replied, retracing the details of the symbol in his mind’s eye.

 

“Excuse me?” John asked, incredulous. “You hope not?”

 

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “It lacks imagination. A five year old could come up with something more exciting than that and I highly doubt our killer is a five year old.” He shook his head, going deeper into thought. “There’s something below the surface – something beyond just what the symbol looks like. It _represents_ something.”

 

Ignoring Sherlock’s unintentional jab at his intelligence – or lack of, so it often seemed in Sherlock’s opinion – John settled further in his seat and stared down at his notepad. The passing streetlights lit it up enough for him to make out the outlines. “And you want to know what it represents.”

 

“Very good, John. You _are_ learning.” But Sherlock was only half paying attention to his colleague. The rest of his attention was focused on his internal collection of images and snippets of information he had gathered through the years. “Our killer chose this symbol for a reason. These snakes, they mean something to him. They’re important somehow. If we can figure out what they mean then we’ll learn a little more about our killer – hopefully about what makes him _tick_.”

 

John looked to the dark-haired man beside him once more. “You keep saying ‘him’ and ‘he’. How do you know it’s a man?”

 

“Two reasons, John. The first being statistics.”

 

“What about them?”

 

“Statistics state that most serial killers are white males.”

 

“Right… of course they do. Why didn’t I know that?”

 

Sherlock’s brow burrowed and he frowned at his flatmate. “Why _would_ you know that?”

 

Unable to think of a suitable response, John rerouted the conversation back on track – or at least slightly more on track. “What’s the second reason then?”

 

That distracted Sherlock. He went back to staring out of the window, his eyes searching the streets for nothing in particular. “Look at the victim. She’s an escort. Her clientele would have consisted mainly of wealthy men. No doubt her diary will reveal that it was a man she was meant to be meeting earlier.”

 

He paused in his speech and movements, a spark of a thought passing through him. Only when it was fully formed did he restart in both speech and movement once more. “Of course, the killer – he must have posed as a client which means it wasn’t just a random killing. He had been watching her. He knew her work.”

 

The cab stopped outside of 221b Baker Street and Sherlock was out of the door in an instant, too lost in thought as he clambered toward the flat in his hurry for more research facilities. That left John to pay the driver with the last note in his wallet.

 

“Keep the change,” he added as he pulled himself from the car, resigned in the knowledge that the few shiny coins that would be left over would barely be enough to buy a good cup of tea let alone anything else.

 

He caught Sherlock up at the entrance to the living room, the detective shrugging out of his jacket as he still puzzled over the case – completely unaware of John’s brief absence. “So what does it all _mean_? Why this symbol? Why her? Why take the necklace?”

 

“That’s a lot of questions,” John remarked with an air of flippancy, pulling free of his own jacket.

 

Sherlock ignored him, heading straight for the laptop lying closed on the table – _John’s_ laptop. But that was all semantics, it was a laptop and it was there, ready and waiting to be used. “The biggest question of all is where do we start?”

 

John glanced toward the clock and rubbed at his eyes with his left palm, vaguely aware of an unsettled rumble in his stomach that reminded him of how he hadn’t eaten. “When you say we, I really hope you’re not including me in that statement. It’s two in the morning and unlike you, I actually require sleep… and food – which I have yet to have, by the way.”

 

“Who could sleep at a time like this?” Sherlock asked, his fingers already tapping away at the keyboard, eyes trained on the screen.

 

“ _I_ could actually.”

 

Grey-blue eyes rolled. “Don’t be a spoil sport, John. We both know what you would rather be doing.”

 

There was a pause where John refused to answer and Sherlock considered what else to say, the tip-tapping of the keys stilling for a moment.

 

“I need your help, John.”

 

Smiling tightly, John shook his head. “You really don’t.”

 

“Quite true,” Sherlock said after a moment’s consideration, “but I would like it all the same.” And here he began to sulk a little. “It’s just not the same talking to the skull anymore – I’ve grown quite accustomed to listening to your idle chatter as I think.”

 

“If that was meant to be a compliment, it was rubbish one.” And yet John took a seat on the couch all the same, observing Sherlock in his work.

 

“It was merely a statement of fact. How you take it is entirely up to you.” Here he swung the laptop around and pointed to the image on the screen, his eyes locking with John’s expectantly. “Ouroboros.”

 

“I’m sorry… Ouro-what?” John asked, looking over the image. It was a circle. Although, no, upon closer inspection, it was a snake – gripping its tail at the very end.

 

“Ouroboros,” Sherlock repeated, turning the laptop back around so he could tip-tap at the keys once more. “It symbolises infinity, in a sense anyway. A serpent attempting to devour its own tail.”

 

“And just what has that got to do with _our_ symbol?” Unlike Sherlock, who thrived on simple snippets of information and had long since mastered the art of putting all those snippets together, John felt like he was staring at a ‘connect the dots’ picture – only without any numbers to help. The lack of sleep wasn’t helping much either.

 

“Look at your notes again, John.”

 

John did so.

 

“What do you see?”

 

And there it was. How had he missed that? “The snakes are eating each other’s tails?” He frowned. “Why?”

 

“Precisely. _Why_ indeed?” The dark-haired man leaned forward, nose nearly pressed to the screen as he let go of a growl of frustration. “What are you trying to say?” he murmured under his breath.

 

“Maybe he just likes snakes,” John mumbled in reply, voice drifting. He fought to keep his eyes open, unable to stop a yawn from slipping past his lips. “Or maybe he’s just twisted.”

 

“Twisted…” Sherlock repeated, the word hanging on the air. He raised his eyes once more, about to say something further but his flatmate was fast out of it – a light snore already escaping his sleeping form – and the detective’s words fell dead before they even hit the air. It could wait until morning.

 

\-----

 

“Get up, John – we’re going out.”

 

One foot still in the dream, John pulled himself up, vaguely aware of a blanket falling away from his torso. He blinked his eyes several times, attempting to figure out what had happened to the horde of zombie-aliens he had been fighting off moments before. And the fish… where were the fish?

 

“John,” Sherlock called from the doorway, looping his scarf around his neck. He raised his eyebrows, awaiting his flatmate’s reply.

 

“Sherlock?” was all that came. Puzzled eyes searched the living room before landing on the detective. It took a further few moments before John figured out what had happened. The realisation came like a splash of cold water to the face and he sprung to his feet – wavering slightly from the sudden movement. “What time is it?”

 

“Nine-thirty,” Sherlock answered, now preoccupied with slipping his hands into his gloves. “I called ahead – Lestrade is expecting us. If we leave right this moment we should have just enough time to grab a quick lunch after meeting Lestrade.”

 

“Hold on.” John held both his hands up for emphasis, eyes closed in an attempt to catch his breath better.

 

Had someone, and in this case there was really only Mike Stamford to blame, told John prior to his sharing a flat with Sherlock that the detective had a habit of planning your day for you – without consulting you – he may have changed his mind about meeting said detective. But then, both flatmates knew he would have still stuck around – though neither was quite sure why.

 

“Just… just hang on a moment,” John continued, satisfied that Sherlock had fallen into silence. He opened his eyes once more and lowered his hands. “At least give me a chance to get ready before you start dragging me out the door and all over London. I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”

 

Sherlock considered this in an almost clinical manner before giving a curt nod. “You have ten minutes – the cab will leave in twelve.” With that, he swept from the room leaving John wondering whether or not he truly would leave without him.

 

\-----

 

As it stood, John didn’t risk it.

 

He hurried about, stubbing his toe in the process and dripping toothpaste onto the very bottom of a clean shirt in his rush to make it out of the flat before the taxi left. He had thought of hanging back for an extra minute or so to see if Sherlock would still be there but his throbbing toe told him that it wasn’t worth it. Sherlock would have agreed with the throbbing toe.

 

It wasn’t long before they were pulling up outside of Scotland Yard and Sherlock was paying the driver – which was a good thing as, in his rush, John had left his wallet at home.

 

“The girl’s diary – did you find it?” Sherlock questioned when Lestrade approached them inside.

 

“Good morning to you too,” Lestrade replied, his voice a low and gritty rumble. His eyes flashed to John, sympathetic as they considered the man. “I see he’s dragged you along too.”

 

John shared a weary smile with the inspector that said it was still far too early in the day for Sherlock’s energy and antics but both knew they really had no choice. They went where Sherlock instructed them too. And no matter how many yawns John had to force back or how much caffeine Lestrade had needed in preparation after Sherlock’s phone call, Sherlock remained oblivious – completely focused on the task at hand.

 

“Did you find it?” he repeated.

 

“We did and don’t think for one moment that I’m letting you take a look. I _do_ have officers working the case as well, you know.” Lestrade grumbled, turning on his heel and leading the way to his office.

 

“Your officers are idiots.”

 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

 

Sherlock shot him a pointed look. “You asked me for help.”

 

“And you’re enjoying every minute of it. But I’m not having you run off on your own – that’s not how this works.”

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

Lestrade held the door to his office open for the pair then closed it behind them before rounding on Sherlock. “No, it isn’t. There are boundaries, Sherlock, and rules. You can’t go around doing as you please all the time.”

 

Sherlock merely glanced around the room, bored as he played with the fabric of his gloves. He smiled tightly. “And criminals, they care about such rules and boundaries?”

 

“Sherlock…” The inspector drew out the name in such a way that said he knew he couldn’t just hand the diary over without a fight but at the same time, he knew exactly how the meeting would end and it would end with Sherlock getting what he wanted – just like a child.

 

“He’ll be on his best behaviour,” John put in, half wondering if Sherlock even had a best behaviour setting in that computerised brain of his. “Won’t you, Sherlock?”

 

There was a moment of drawn out silence where Sherlock considered arguing and the others waited for him to do exactly that. So when he spoke again, it surprised both John and Lestrade to hear what he said. “Of course I will.” The reply was short and tight but would have to do and it was enough for Lestrade.

 

“On the desk,” the inspector said, relenting.

 

He hitched a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his desk and the box that sat there. Sherlock moved forward immediately and withdrew the diary from inside the box. He rifled through the pages until his eyes locked on the entry for the previous day.

 

After several moments and with an all too dangerous smile, he closed the small book with a quiet ‘clap’ and looked up to John. “How do you feel about Mediterranean food?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. I wish I did but I'm just not that lucky. I am, however, lucky enough to be able to write about them.
> 
> Warnings: Timeline wise I'd say this could be set either just before episode 1.03 (The Great Game) or after it so basically – spoilers for season 1.

Chapter 3

 

Of course, John should have known the moment Sherlock mentioned Mediterranean food that by the time they were sitting in the restaurant, looking over the menu, the words tumbling from his lips would be, “Don’t you think this is a tad expensive for lunch? Or for any type of food really…”

 

“This is where the victim was the night she was murdered.” Sherlock folded his menu away and focused on watching the entrance.

 

The place was quiet, a couple sitting toward the back and a group of businessmen sitting close to the window. Sherlock had already dismissed them as suspects.

 

“Yes, I get that,” John answered, voice hushed as he glanced to the staff and other customers. “That part I _do_ understand. What I don’t understand is why we’re eating here. I mean, forty pounds for a starter? That’s just a little bit ridiculous.”

 

“You need to eat, remember?” the other man responded, tone bored, almost lethargic if it were at all possible for a tone to be such a thing. “You told me so last night.”

 

A little exasperated, John laid his menu on the table and surveyed Sherlock, meeting the man’s eyes. “Yes, I need to eat but this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to staring at the entrance, hands folded neatly beneath his chin. “You _have_ heard the phrase about two birds and one stone?”

 

“Yes, I have.” John let go of an irritated huff and spun in his seat, glancing to the doorway before looking back to his flatmate. “And what do you keep looking at? Who are you waiting for?”

 

“No one, it was just a theory.” The dark-haired man shook his head, his lips quirking at the corner as his attention went back to John and the menu on the table. “Are you ready to order?”

 

John stared for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to elaborate on his theory. “No, I’m not ready to order,” he answered, trying to push the distracting question aside. “What do you mean ‘just a theory’? Anytime you want to share… as you know, sharing is good.”

 

Sherlock’s smile turned tighter. “In the girl’s diary – all of her entries were written in blue ink except the one for today which was written in black.”

 

“You think it was written by the killer?”

 

Sherlock didn’t reply.

 

“So we might be meeting a killer… for lunch? This is ridiculous, Sherlock. Even by your standards”

 

The detective just lowered his eyes to John, keeping his gaze level, one corner of his mouth twitching with a mischievous smile. “If that entry was left by our killer then he wanted us here for a reason – I highly doubt we would be putting ourselves in any real danger.”

 

“No, of course not. Why would we do that?” With a roll of his eyes, John returned his attention to the menu for some distraction.

 

“You know, I haven’t got the money for this,” he went on after a few beats of silence. “I haven’t even got my wallet.”

 

“Which is why I’ll be paying. Honestly, John, you really do let the most trivial things get to you.”

 

John thought to argue that money was hardly trivial and did indeed matter but the look in Sherlock’s eyes had him asking himself what the point would be. Sometimes it was best just to know when to give in. The same was true when it came to the idea of meeting a possible serial killer for lunch.

 

Any normal person would have objected more. But then, any normal person wouldn’t have been sitting there with Sherlock Holmes in the first place. And whilst John still considered himself to be a rather normal and ordinary person, it was difficult not to admit that the consulting detective was rubbing off on him.

 

In the end, John ordered the cheapest thing on the menu whilst Sherlock sipped at his tea, eyes still flicking back to the entrance every so often. When the bill came, John slipped a few extra mints from the small bowl into his pocket, for that time later when he would be too busy running around after Sherlock to eat anything else, and headed to the bathroom as Sherlock paid.

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how Sherlock did it – put aside the obvious needs of his body to purely cater for the needs of his over-active mind. Sherlock, on the other hand, wondered how other people – such as John – allowed themselves to be distracted by such menial things.

 

He was still pondering this when the young waitress returned with his card and receipt. She wavered and he looked up.

 

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” she asked, glancing to the name on the card briefly and giving it a dubious look as if such things had a habit of changing often.

 

“Yes, thank you. I am.” A false smile in place, he took both card and receipt from her but found his eyes drawn to her other hand, where she played with a slip of paper.

 

“A man just asked me to give you this.” She held out the paper. “He said it was important.”

 

“A man?” Sherlock took the paper, eyeing it with caution. He had seen no one come in. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He had seen no one suspicious come in. There had, however, been a delivery man with a bunch of flowers when the waitress had been seeing to his bill.

 

His hand tightened around the paper. “The man with the flowers?”

 

She nodded and he stood hastily, pulling his coat on as he regarded the girl.

 

“Which way did he go?” He studied her confusion as she struggled to find the answer.

 

“I don’t know – left, I think.”

 

“Left?” he repeated but her squeak of a response was no more than a whisper as he darted toward the doorway and swung left once there.

 

It was in that moment that a highly befuddled and ever so slightly irritated John Watson emerged from the bathroom. “Sherlock?” he called, uncertain, his gaze following the dark figure out of the door. “Sherlock!”

 

Of course, by then it was too late. He realised as much even as he tugged his jacket free from the chair and gave chase. It was a pity though, that it wasn’t until Sherlock found himself in a darkened alleyway that he realised the same thing.

 

He heard footsteps approach from behind and a small smile played at his lips, sardonic and dry. Oh what a fool he was. What an idiotic fool.

 

“I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t come,” he said but the man behind remained silent. “The flowers were a nice touch – _very_ distracting.”

 

He spun on his heel to face his foe and realised his mistake almost immediately. He had expected to see a gun aimed at his head. _Dull._ Any barbarian could pull a trigger and actually hit their target from such a close range.

 

But he didn’t see a gun. In fact, he didn’t have time to see much of anything and had even less time to marvel at the originality behind the attack. A blast of water hit his face, only it wasn’t water. It stung far too much to be water.

 

Sherlock blinked and swiped at his face, using his scarf and the sleeves of his coat to mop at the wet that clung to his skin. Not that it particularly mattered anymore, the damage had been done and he was already too aware of the fact that no matter how much he blinked or how wide he opened his eyes, he could not see.

 

The world was wavering before him, blurred and fading, and he was standing in a darkened alley staring blankly ahead, unable to see.

 

“Sherlock!” John’s voice carried down the alleyway and in the muddled darkness, Sherlock heard two sets of footsteps – both quickened as one disappeared behind him and the other approached from upfront.

 

“Sherlock?” the doctor repeated, but the name was more than just that. It was a question. It was ‘what happened?’. It was ‘are you okay?’. It was also ‘you are an absolute idiot, do you know that?’ but that wasn’t as important.

 

In fact, to Sherlock, nothing less than confronting the assailant was – not the stinging sensation in his eyes or his current lack of sight, or John’s stalled footsteps.

 

“I’m fine – just go after him.” He kept his eyes closed and pinched at his brow, not wishing to alert his flatmate to his current predicament. Because John was so very much the type of man to believe that Sherlock’s health took precedence over chasing the suspect.

 

As it was, John conducted a quick once over with his eyes and, finding no traces of blood on his friend, gave a nod and sped off down the alley. It was only when he could see no sign of the man he was meant to be chasing that he thought to ask himself why Sherlock hadn’t followed. Upon that revelation, he couldn’t get back to the detective fast enough.

 

When John did arrive back, he found Sherlock leaning against the alley wall, his gaze heavenward. To anyone passing by, it looked like the man was merely cloud watching. To John, it looked like he was deep in thought.

 

What he was doing was listening.

 

“You didn’t catch him then?” he asked without looking to John.

 

“No – too fast,” John answered, thoughts distracted as he searched Sherlock over once again for any sign of injury that he may have missed the first time. There had to be something because Sherlock Holmes, the world’s greatest consulting detective, didn’t hang back. He didn’t let the villain or scoundrel or hoodwink get away because he fancied doing a bit of cloud watching.

 

“What happened?” The words finally slipped past his lips when the silence got too much for him, worry seeping in.

 

Sherlock’s jaw tensed but his reply was light, flippant. “I followed our friend to here.”

 

“And?”

 

“And you chased him away.”

 

John’s lips twitched at the corner in irritation. Something the universe should have warned him about Sherlock Holmes – and she had been planning to, she had just never gotten around to doing it – was that as much as the great detective loved to show off, talking to him at times was worse than talking to a brick wall. At least with a brick wall you knew the wall didn’t think you were an idiot.

 

“Yes… yes, I remember that part. I was here for that part. Now, what about the bit before that – where you and Mr. Quick were facing off?”

 

“You make it sound so dramatic, John.”

 

John tilted his head to the side, surveying the man before him. “And isn’t it? Because I’m assuming that was the killer, wasn’t it? That’s why you were chasing him in the first place?”

 

“It was.”

 

“Right…” John scoffed. “And that’s all you have to say?”

 

“I answered your question.”

 

“You answered one of them.”

 

A small smile played at the very edges of Sherlock’s lips. “Ah yes, you still want to know what happened.”

 

“Only if you feel like sharing, of course.” Sarcasm. Thick, dripping sarcasm.

 

Sherlock’s hesitation should have been enough of a telltale for John. It should have alerted the doctor immediately but he was still far too busy being angry at his friend for risking his life that he was a little slow in ‘deducing’ why Sherlock wasn’t so forthcoming.

 

In the silence that stretched on, the chill in the air cooled John’s blood and the adrenaline began to ebb away. His shoulders slumped and he regarded Sherlock. “He outsmarted you, didn’t he?”

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock replied with that same air of arrogance he always had about him.

 

“Then what would you say?”

 

“Distracted,” Sherlock decided on because he refused to believe that a common murderer could outsmart _him_ of all people.

 

“You could have been killed,” John pointed out, which was really quite good of him considering how often the consulting detective seemed to forget about his own mortality.

 

“Doubtful when I had my trusty blogger following behind. Besides, he didn’t want to kill me.”

 

But the shorter man remained unconvinced. “I suppose he just wanted a chat?”

 

Sherlock pulled the slip of paper from his pocket and held it out to John, or at least in the direction he figured John was standing in judging by where the sound of his voice came from. “Read this – it should tell us what he wanted.”

 

John grumbled but snatched the paper away. Once unfolded, his eyes skimmed the words written there. None of it made a lick of sense to him.

 

“Out loud,” Sherlock instructed in the silence that was left behind.

 

“Oh for-” John started, swearing under his breath and thrusting the paper back at the dark-haired man. “Read it yourself.”

 

“Normally I would but then, normally I would be able to see what’s written there.”

 

John opened his mouth to speak but his words stalled along with his brain. “I’m sorry… what are you saying?”

 

“I’m blind, John.” And here his gaze met the doctor’s, which for John was extremely disturbing considering he couldn’t quite work out how his friend knew exactly where to look. But even without actual sight, the consulting detective still managed to stare down at the man before him with that perplexed look he reserved for ‘idiots’ – or in other words, anyone who wasn’t Sherlock himself. “Why else do you think I didn’t join in your chase?”

 

And somehow ‘I thought you were out of breath’ just didn’t quite seem like a good enough response.


	4. Chapter 4

 

“Stop rubbing your eyes,” John snapped, chastising his dark-haired flatmate and slapping the man’s hands away from his eyes for the umpteenth time.

 

After the incident in the alleyway, John had suggested they go to the hospital or, at the very least, the clinic. Sherlock had flatly refused both. John was a doctor and therefore, he was quite capable of doing what needed to be done. But rather than head back to Baker Street, they had wound up at Scotland Yard, sitting in Lestrade’s office.

 

“And for God’s sake, don’t poke at them!” he reprimanded further, half considering asking Lestrade if there were a pair of handcuffs lying about that he could use on the consulting detective.

 

“You’re taking too long,” Sherlock droned, slumping further into his seat.

 

“That’s because you keep fidgeting.” He stopped himself from mentioning that the younger man behaved worse than a child. This was proved to be even truer when Sherlock sulked and let out a long huff.

 

“This was exactly what I was trying to avoid,” Lestrade grumbled from behind the pair, his arms crossed over his chest. “You must have some kind of death wish.”

 

A twisted smile slipped onto Sherlock’s lips. “What was it you called me before? An arrogant masochist, I believe.”

 

“Who will get himself killed one day,” John finished, recalling what the DI had said when they had first entered his office. “And he’s right, you know.”

 

“I had everything under control. If the killer had seen so much as one member of the police, he wouldn’t have made his move.”

 

“He made his move alright,” Lestrade growled out. “And look where that got you.”

 

Sherlock didn’t have a chance to reply, John stopped whatever retort he had dead as the doctor, growing increasingly frustrated with his patient, pushed Sherlock’s arms down to his side. “Hold still!”

 

“Where’s the note?” the consulting detective questioned instead, choosing the ever favourable option of changing the subject.

 

“The boys in the lab have it – they’re checking it over for fingerprints.” Lestrade’s answer was quick but Sherlock’s response was quicker.

 

“They won’t find anything. That would be far too careless and our killer is too smart for that.”

 

“Then maybe you could give us a little more to go on then, such as what he looks like as you’re the one that saw him.”

 

Sherlock grumbled and shifted, earning himself a sharp exhale of breath in warning from John. “A physical description would be far too generic and given my current condition, I doubt an e-fit would be of any help.”

 

“Done,” John announced, cutting into the conversation and moving back away from Sherlock. “You can move again now – _just_ leave your eyes alone. Please.”

 

“How’s it looking?” Lestrade asked, voice lowered, softer around the edges.

 

The doctor opened his mouth to answer but Sherlock saved him the trouble.

 

“Temporary loss of sight due to direct contact with a chemical or toxin – plant most likely in this case. Annoying but clever… I have to give him that.”

 

Lestrade continued addressing John as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken up. “And how long until he gets his sight back?”

 

“Hard to say really. It could be anywhere from a couple of days up to a week, depending on whether or not he. Stops. Rubbing. Them.” A glare joined the emphasis placed on the last few words and though John knew very well that Sherlock couldn’t see it, he also knew the consulting detective would be able to feel its intensity. “I’ll get him some drops from the clinic later. They should help ease the burning.”

 

“As fascinating as my well-being may be,” Sherlock interrupted, scrubbing his hands across his face, careful not to rub his eyes, as that familiar bored tone settled into his voice. “We are currently wasting time that could be spent looking into our killer’s latest note.”

 

And sometimes the worst thing about working with Sherlock Holmes was that he was, more often than not, right. Of course, that also happened to be the plus side and led to cases being solved, but it was the way in which he did it that rubbed people up the wrong way. Lestrade had long since grown used to it and John was fast learning how to ignore it.

 

“We are gods among mortals. But even gods must be tested,” John voiced, remembering the words written on the slip of paper clearly. “What does that even mean?”

 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

 

“If it was obvious, I wouldn’t be asking.” Because as much as the great consulting detective liked to believe that everything should be blatantly obvious, John had to disagree.

 

“Our friend thinks of himself as a god,” Sherlock explained in short, his mind going over the words again.

 

“Great,” Lestrade mumbled, leaning against his desk. “As if these psychopaths weren’t bad enough already now we have one who thinks he’s God.”

 

“Not _the_ God,” Sherlock corrected. “ _A_ god. And not just any god. Loki – the trickster.”

 

“Loki? How could you _possibly_ know that?”

 

“Urnes Snake,” he said as though it were something that frequently appeared in everyday conversation. “The symbol from the crime scene – that’s what it is. Frequently thought of as the symbol of Loki.”

 

For anyone who knew Sherlock Holmes, they learned very quickly how pointless it was to argue with the man. Both DI and doctor were no exception. That said, it didn’t stop Lestrade from pulling up the web browser on his computer to confirm what Sherlock had been saying. Sure enough, a quick internet search brought up several images matching the one they had found at the crime scene.

 

“How did you…” John started, but his voice trailed off and he could only stare at Sherlock in amazement.

 

“It was something you said. It made me think.”

 

“And what was it I said?”

 

“Twisted.”

 

John shook his head. “You got _this_ from ‘twisted’?”

 

“You made me realise I was focusing on the wrong thing. The way the snakes coil around one another, the pattern around the edge… I should have been looking at the style.”

 

“The style,” John repeated because he still had no clue.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, his leg twitching from the need to move about. “Norse to be exact. Norse. Snakes. Norse snakes.”

 

“Brilliant…” The word was an awed whisper, slipping from John’s mouth before he could stop it.

 

“Yes, quite,” Sherlock replied but whilst John’s words were meant in praise for him, Sherlock was lost in thought over the game the killer had set up. “What else did the note say?”

 

“It didn’t _say_ anything else,” Lestrade answered.

 

“There has to be something else – something _more_.”

 

“I think there was a picture… a silhouette of some kind.” John attempted to recall the small image that had been below the words but found himself thinking instead how it would have been much easier if the lab was done with the paper.

 

“Specifics, John, specifics. What did it look like?”

 

“I don’t know – a bird maybe. Bird of prey I think.”

 

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side and he stilled. “Long or short beak?”

 

“I don’t know!” John repeated but he closed his eyes all the same, searching his memory. “Short, I guess. Why?”

 

“Eagles have larger beaks so it’s more likely a hawk or a falcon but why? What does it mean?” Fingers interlocked, Sherlock rested his brow against his thumbs and thought back on what he had learned about Loki. Everything was in there somewhere, he was sure of it.

 

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and Sergeant Donovan slipped into the room. All eyes moved to her, even blinded ones, and the evidence bag and folder she held.

 

“Sir.” She inclined her head toward the DI, sending a look of wary disdain Sherlock’s way.

 

“Ah, Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock greeted with false cheer. “Always a pleasure. Do we have a date tonight or are you just trying to impress a certain member of the forensic team with that new perfume of yours?”

 

A tight grimace slid across her features but she was saved the trouble of answering when Lestrade spoke up – opting to stop the childish back and forth before it could truly start.

 

“What have you got, Donovan?”

 

“Fingerprints. Four sets – three have been accounted for.”

 

“And which three would they be?” Sherlock drawled.

 

The tightness in her voice was back but she flipped open the folder. “Sarah Harrison, the waitress at the restaurant, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson.”

 

“You…you have my fingerprints on file?” John questioned before a vague memory of spray paint and delinquents dawned on him.

 

“Yeah, something about defacing public property?” She frowned, gaze narrowed as she considered him before taking on a look that clearly said ‘I warned you about being around Sherlock Holmes’.

 

“And the fourth set?” Lestrade asked.

 

“It’ll be a dead end,” Sherlock chimed in, his voice almost sing-song in its lightness.

 

Lestrade ignored him – as did the sergeant.

 

“They’re searching the database now. If he’s in it, we’ll get him.”

 

“I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.”

 

“You also told us there would be no fingerprints,” Lestrade countered.

 

Sherlock growled in frustration and pushed up from his chair. “What part of ‘too smart for that’ don’t you understand? Any fingerprints on that paper, our killer put there for a reason.”

 

He set to pacing a small square metre of floor, the lack of sight limiting him from anything larger. Back and forth, back and forth.

 

“Go home, Sherlock,” Lestrade growled out but there was concern hidden under the aggravation. “There’s nothing else for you here at the moment.”

 

The consulting detective came to a stop, his attention focused on the DI. “That fingerprint isn’t from the killer,” he said, tone flat, pure certainty lining each word.

 

“Maybe it isn’t,” Lestrade conceded, “But it’s the only lead we’ve got. So until you come up with something more, I can’t do anything else.”

 

And even Sherlock couldn’t argue with the logic there – though really, if he wanted to be pedantic, he could have pointed out that there was plenty that could be done.

 

“Call me when you get the next body,” he said after a drawn out silence, spinning on his heel with dramatic flourish to face the doorway – and even Sergeant Donovan had to be impressed by the grace he held even when blind.

 

“Next body?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, the word a hiss on his tongue. “The next body. This is a serial killer after all.”

 

And as Sherlock and John left the office, the lingering, ever so slightly scathing reply was, “Of course, how could I forget?”

 

\-----

 

 

“So if he’s Loki,” John started when he and Sherlock were once again back at 221b Baker Street. “Who are you?”

 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked from where he lay on the couch – spread out, legs crossed at his ankles with one arm draped over his eyes as the other hung loosely over the edge.

 

“The note – it says ‘we’. _We_ are gods.”

 

Sherlock’s lips twitched, a smile dancing on them for a moment as ‘ _well spotted, John_ ’ ran across his thoughts. “I believe the clue lies in my lack of sight.”

 

John pursed his lips in thought but, in the end, shook his head. “Nope, I don’t follow.”

 

Swinging his legs out, the detective sat up on the couch. Fingers templed together, he tapped them against his lips and closed his eyes – not that it made much difference but it was more out of habit than need.

 

Since hearing the message on the paper, his mind had been working through it, connecting it to what he had discovered about the symbol and Loki. But it had been such a long time since he had needed Norse mythology that he only remembered lingering details. And he knew, he just _knew_ that the blindness was in amongst those details somewhere.

 

It irked him no end, being unable to work it out straight away – set him on edge because he should _know_. He was Sherlock Holmes and nothing, not one single detail, should get past him.

 

“It’s a test.” The chaos from inside his mind slipped out into his words, too much going on inside of his head for him to keep it all there. Still, he searched his internal catalogue.

 

“Yes, I gathered that from the note.” John played with his laptop, pulling up the browser history and looking over the pages Sherlock had visited the night before. He was left wondering if the man had slept at all but dismissed the thought, knowing it was a stupid query as Sherlock so rarely slept whilst working.

 

“In order to gain wisdom, the god Odin gave up an eye…” Sherlock frowned. He was inclined to believe that the killer was using the same logic in order to test him but if the killer believed him to be Odin, then surely he wouldn’t believe a test was needed? No, there was more to it. He just had to figure it all out and fit the pieces together.

 

John stilled at his laptop, his fingers hovering over the keys, a brief thought flashing across his mind. He had thought to ask ‘why you?’ but he already had his answer, he just didn’t like it. After all, Sherlock appeared to have a habit of attracting unwanted attention.

 

“This…” He paused, not quite sure if he wanted to raise the question. He continued all the same though, like a curious cat treading on deadly territory, but the curiosity had been spiked and he couldn’t let it go now. “You don’t think this is Moriarty, do you?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “No. He would want us to know if it was – though I have no doubt that he will be connected somehow.”

 

The question had crossed his own mind before but he had dismissed it then just as he did now.

 

Several more moments passed and John fought back a yawn before it finally won and came out more as a lengthy groan, his hand doing little to suppress the noise.

 

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock instructed. “You’ll be no good to me brain dead.”

 

“I’m fine,” the doctor lied, casting a worried glance in Sherlock’s direction.

 

“It is my sight that is hindered, not my intelligence.”

 

“More’s the pity,” John grumbled under his breath as sometimes, he did reflect on what it would be like not to have a genius for a flatmate. What he said aloud though, was, “And what will you do while I sleep?”

 

“Attempt to solve the case of course.”

 

And John just couldn’t argue with that because, as Sherlock had so kindly pointed out, his mind was still intact and he was quite capable of thinking things through if nothing else.

 

As he made his way upstairs to his room, John just hoped the consulting detective had more sense than to go swanning about London on a darkened night in his blinded state without John to guide him.

 

He locked the front door and hid the key just in case.

 

\-----

 

The sky was dark, the streetlights lit, and London slept somewhat undisturbed by the sirens and flashing red and blue lights that raced through the streets. They wailed and screamed. A fingerprint match had been found and the police were desperate to get their man – a Mr. Michael. P. Weathers.

 

It was too bad then, that when they reached his office building, they had just missed him. The falcon of Falcon Industries had learned to fly.

 

And he was still soaring, or more accurately, plummeting to the ground, tied to his office chair and coated in thick, burning flames when Lestrade’s car pulled up outside the building. Lestrade stepped out just in time to hear the sickening smash of body hitting ground.

 

He would not be eating again for a long while.


	5. Chapter 5

 

It was early, 7AM, by the time John dragged himself back down to the living area. He didn’t feel any better for sleeping. If anything, he felt worse – finding himself waking every few hours and listening for any signs of Sherlock moving about the place or playing with dangerous chemicals. He would not have put it past the man to try such things.

 

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock chimed when he entered the room, the morning news playing in the background on the TV. A murder – no wonder the detective was so cheerful.

 

“Morning,” John greeted, taking a seat on the arm of the couch and watching the events on the TV. “What’s happened?”

 

“Our murderer has struck again.”

 

“How do you know it was him?”

 

Sherlock smiled. “Falcon. Falcon Industries.”

 

And sure enough, as he said the words, the camera roamed over the area cordoned off with police tape, lingering on a sign that read ‘ _Falcon Industries_ ’.

 

“The note,” John breathed out in understanding. He sighed and pushed himself up – it was going to be another long day. “Cup of tea?”

 

“No time for tea, John. We have a crime scene to investigate.”

 

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

 

\-----

 

A light drizzle set in as the morning went on, dampening both Sherlock’s and John’s coats and hair when they arrived at the crime scene less than a half hour later. They waited by the tape, impatiently in Sherlock’s case, as a young Detective Constable ran off to fetch Lestrade.

 

“Sherlock,” the DI called, approaching the pair shortly after. “I was just about to call you.”

 

“Were you?” Sherlock questioned, dry and unconvinced, an eyebrow arched upward.

 

Lestrade didn’t rise to the bait, lifting the tape for Sherlock and John. “You’ll probably like this one.”

 

He led the way and John helped Sherlock along, very much feeling like a seeing-eye dog and in a way, he did resemble a faithful Labrador, obediently following – or in this case, guiding – his ‘master’.

 

“Michael P. Weathers. He was an executive here. Was arrested back in 2000 for possession then again in ’08 on a murder charge. Both times he got off – both times, evidence was ‘misplaced’,” the inspector explained as he walked. “His secretary said he was working late last night. We got here just as he started his flying lesson.”

 

“Um, excuse me?” John interrupted. “Flying lesson?”

 

Lestrade stopped his approach of the building and pointed toward a broken glass window a few storeys up. “Somebody strapped him to his chair, set him alight then sent him flying through that window.” He turned and motioned to a spot nearby where forensics still worked. “He landed there.”

 

“Defenestration,” Sherlock muttered.

 

“God bless you?”

 

Huffing out, Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. “Defenestration,” he repeated, like an old English teacher at the front of a classroom filled with exceptionally dull students. “The act of throwing something or someone through a window. Honestly, how _do_ you cope with such a limited knowledge of the world?”

 

“Solar system,” John coughed into his hand and Sherlock stiffened but said nothing, allowing Lestrade to continue as he led them to the office turned crime scene.

 

“Of course, we’re still waiting on the reports before we can positively identify the body but I think it’s safe to say Weathers is the victim.” He stopped just inside the office. “It was his fingerprints we found on the note.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I had thought as much.”

 

“You thought as much?”

 

“Yes – this morning when I heard the news. The fingerprint and the image, a falcon, they were clues. The murderer wanted us to know who he was going to kill next.” He paused in thought, a frown tugging at his lips and creasing his brow. “But he knew we wouldn’t have enough time to identify the victim before the act took place.” A deep breath, features relaxing. “He didn’t want us to solve this one. He’s just showing us what he can do – a demonstration of how the game works.”

 

“This isn’t a game.”

 

“Oh, but to him it is. To him, this is all a game.” He span on the spot and for a moment, John forgot about the detective’s lack of sight, so sure that he had to be taking everything about the office in. But even without sight, he was taking it all in – the sounds, the smells, the feel. “Did he leave another note?”

 

“On the desk, yeah. It’s been taken back to the lab to be checked for fingerprints.” Lestrade shook his head at the complaint rising to Sherlock’s lips. “It was blank – nothing but that symbol, just like the first.”

 

 “There must be something – something that isn’t right. Something that will point us to his next victim.” Sherlock tapped his hand at his side.

 

A smile played at the corners of John’s mouth. “And you think you’ll find it? Sherlock, in case you haven’t noticed – you’re blind! You can’t see.”

 

“Human beings have five senses, John. Losing one does not make me any less capable of solving this case.” Sherlock’s own lips twitched. “Besides, that’s what I have _you_ for – an extra set of eyes.”

 

“Oh, well,” John answered, raising his arms in defeat. “Crack on then.”

 

And so he did.

 

“That smell,” Sherlock said, his arms out to the side as he breathed in deep and pirouetted on the spot once more, brow wrinkled from concentration.

 

John thought he was just showing off now. “What smell?”

 

“Flowers – fresh.”

 

“Um.” The doctor spun to regard the room, his eyes finding a glass vase sitting on the dead man’s desk. “There are some daisies…”

 

“Daisies…” Sherlock thought back to the day before. Although his attention had been on other things, he remembered the flowers the killer had left at the restaurant vividly. Daisies. “Check for a card – the flowers are no doubt a gift from our killer.”

 

“So now he’s leaving us flowers?” Lestrade questioned, gaze following John as the doctor did as Sherlock asked.

 

“No, not us,” John answered after a beat, holding up a small white card. “Sherlock.”

 

“What’s it say?”

 

“Sherlock,” John repeated with a half shrug. “That’s all it says. It has the name of the florist in the corner though – H. and J. Flowers. ‘Fresh flowers for all occasions’. Not sure whoever came up with that had this in mind…”

 

John’s words washed over Sherlock but the name of the florist sunk in. There was a reason behind it being there at the crime scene. It was too specific for it to be a pure coincidence. “H. and J. Flowers. Why not just leave a blank slip like before? Why a florist’s card?”

 

“Advertisement?” John quipped and Sherlock ignored him – he wasn’t surprised. But what did Sherlock expect at such a time on a morning when John hadn’t even managed to have a swig of tea let alone a full cup.

 

The detective’s blind gaze found John and the doctor’s shoulder’s sagged.

 

“We’re going to the florist, aren’t we?” he asked and Sherlock just smiled.

 

\-----

 

Several thoughts flew through Sherlock’s mind during the short ride to the florist. More than several actually, but that was Sherlock all over. The random thought about the cab driver’s inability to stop talking was dismissed along with others as being ‘currently unimportant’. It was highly distracting however, as was the blurred smudge of light he could just make out with his eyes open, but whilst the driver did eventually shut up after several minutes, Sherlock’s eyes did not improve.

 

He closed them and rubbed at his temple, almost considering making a mental note to pick up some dark sunglasses. After all, he couldn’t very well think properly when his eyes kept straining to see what they so obviously could not and it just took far too much effort to keep them closed. There were blocks of colour here and there sure, but nothing was distinctive. No lines, no shapes. Annoying and dull.

 

“You knew, didn’t you?” John asked, breaking the silence that had settled in.

 

“Hmph?” Sherlock responded, his thoughts too busy for the distraction of speaking.

 

“You knew the killer would leave another note.”

 

“I had a theory that he would,” Sherlock corrected.

 

When he didn’t elaborate, John questioned further. “Why?”

 

“Because this is all a game and a player needs an opponent – someone to play against. The envelope at the first scene wasn’t just a calling card, it was an invitation.”

 

“And how long have you known this?” Controlled anger slipped into John’s tone but his voice remained hushed, all too aware of the cabbie listening up front, his body rigid, smile tight.

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Of course it-” he started, voice rising with each word until he cut himself off and took a calming breath and quieted himself. “Of course it matters.”

 

Sherlock didn’t even flinch. “I fail to see how.”

 

“You fail to-” John shook his head. “Of course you do.”

 

But anything else running through John’s mind about Sherlock and his recklessness stayed there as the cab pulled up and the driver turned to face the pair. John paid the man and pulled himself from the cab, reluctantly letting the topic of Sherlock’s complete idiocy slide for the moment – because as much as he was a genius, the detective _could_ be a complete and utter idiot at times.

 

“So what are we going to find here?” John asked instead, eyes taking in the florist shop ahead of them.

 

“The next victim,” Sherlock answered without missing a beat. He allowed John to guide him to the shop, hating the inconvenience every step of the way.

 

“And how do we do that?”

 

“Well, I suppose asking questions would be a good place to start.” The mocking tone was light and half-hearted, the rest of Sherlock’s thoughts focused on the first two victims and what connected them.

 

The bell over the door jingled when it opened and the pair stepped inside amongst the bright and colourful assortments of flowers. John’s nose tickled from the heavy fragrances and he rubbed at it to stifle a sneeze.

 

“Can I help you there?” a young and cheerful voice called out. A plump redhead followed the voice, appearing from behind a vase of orchids and something that John believed resembled a cabbage.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock responded sharply, straight to business. “We need to see your purchase and delivery history for the last week.”

 

She frowned and chewed at her lip, voice small and uncertain. “I’m not sure I’m allowed to do that. I just work here and my boss, she isn’t in today…”

 

“This could be a matter of life and death – someone’s survival could very well depend on that information.” A tad over dramatic but nonetheless true.

 

“Are you with the police?”

 

John’s lip quirked into a smile. “Sort of.”

 

“But, my boss…”

 

“Doesn’t need to know,” John interrupted.

 

She hesitated but eventually nodded and several minutes later they were at the counter with the order book open in front of John. She hovered on the other side of the counter.

 

“And this could really save someone’s life?”

 

“We hope so,” John answered, looking up to meet her gaze just as the bell at the front of the shop jingled once more.

 

She excused herself and shuffled away from the counter to see to the new customer, leaving them alone with the book.

 

John flipped through the pages and pursed his lips for a moment. Columns and rows filled with numbers and words. Nothing screamed ‘next victim’. They were just ordinary orders written in an ordinary order book. All were written in pencil, the handwriting relatively the same for each entry. So what Sherlock expected to find was beyond him. “And what am I looking for?”

 

“Anything that stands out.”

 

The doctor’s gaze fell to the page and to the happy birthdays and congratulations that lined the page. “ _Nothing_ stands out.”

 

“Look beyond the obvious, John.” And when he said it in such a way, he made John feel like a schoolboy again.

 

“I’m looking but I can’t see anything,” John snapped, his voice hushed and then his face fell as his eyes locked on one word. ‘ _Sherlock’_. The name was written in the message column, squashed between _‘Happy Birthday Sarah, lots of love from Mum and Dad’_ and _‘Happy Anniversary, Tom and Gladys’_. “Oh…”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes – oh.” His fingertip moved along the row, tracking across the recipient’s name – a Mr. Michael P. Weathers – the date the order was received and a code that John couldn’t figure out. He kept his finger there and turned his head, attempting to catch the young redhead’s eye.

 

She glanced his way and gave the customer she was with a quick smile before moving back to the counter, her face the picture of puzzlement. “Did you find something?”

 

“What do these codes mean? The ones at the side?” he asked.

 

She moved toward the book, lowering her eyes to the page and brushing her hair out of the way to read them better. “Erm, they’re the codes for what bouquet we send. PL26,” she said, looking up and around them before pointing out a vase just off to the left, “that’s pink lilies.”

 

“And what about this one?” he asked, finger tapping _WD47_ on the page.

 

“White daisies,” she answered promptly with a nod.

 

A silent understanding passed between detective and doctor.

 

“And have you sold anymore of them recently?” Sherlock questioned.

 

The girl leaned in, pulling the book toward her and flipping to the previous page. “Err… yes, here. Mrs. Henderson. They’re her favourites.”

 

“Mrs. Henderson?” John repeated, following the girl’s fingers on the page.

 

“Yeah, she owns the shop. Mr. Henderson is away on a business trip at the moment and well, she always feels under the weather when he’s away. So a friend of hers came into the shop to order them as a surprise for her.”

 

“And does this friend have a name?” Sherlock asked.

 

“I would think so, but I don’t know it.” The girl looked to Sherlock, her brow furrowed and eyes troubled. “Why? You don’t think its Mrs. Henderson that’s in trouble, do you?”

 

“It’s really quite hard to say,” Sherlock answered, insensitive to the fall in the girl’s features or the worry that flashed across her. “This friend, was it a man?”

 

“Yeah…” was all the girl could manage, the word a strangled whisper in the air.

 

“The same man that ordered the white daisies sent to Mr. Weathers?” John went on, flipping the page back.

 

“I guess… Is Mrs. Henderson going to be okay?”

 

“That remains to be seen.” Sherlock spun on his heel to face the exit and whilst many would have seen his attitude as uncaring, and they would be right in thinking so, John preferred to see it as preoccupied. “Come along, John – we’re done here.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

As many a tea drinker would tell you, tea needs to be savoured. It should be enjoyed, preferably in a relaxed state. Therefore, it is always wise to allow it to cool for several minutes before drinking – this saves burning sensitive areas such as the tongue and lips and allows the drinker to get the full benefit of such a drink. It was also exactly what John Watson was doing.

 

He blew over the rim of his cup and into the steaming liquid, feeling for the first time that day like he could breathe.

 

After the florist, Sherlock had passed the information along to Lestrade and returned to 221b Baker Street with John. He had decided that the DI was quite capable of looking into the woman and that his attention would be best served focused on the killer.

 

The tea was cooling nicely and John smiled, already moving to take a tentative sip when the ring from Sherlock’s phone interrupted him. He paused, holding still – not even daring to breathe, knowing what was about to come.

 

“Could you pass me my phone, John?” Sherlock asked, fingers steepled below his chin as he looked out unseeing across the room.

 

Only John’s eyes moved, flicking to the phone where it sat on the arm of the couch – a mere foot or so away from Sherlock. After hearing request after request after request since returning to their flat, John had finally decided that enough was enough. Blind or not, Sherlock could reach his damn own phone. And so he continued to hold himself so very still, statuesque.

 

He was used to such conditions after having to hide from enemies several times whilst away on duty. It had always worked back then. His life and his comrades’ lives had depended on it.

 

So why it didn’t work now was beyond him.

 

“Stop being so fractious,” Sherlock reprimanded. “I can hear you breathing.”

 

And John was sure he was lying. He was sure that it was impossible for his flatmate to hear when he was trying so hard not to make a sound. And yet, it was Sherlock Holmes and that was enough to leave John wondering as he abandoned his cup of tea and snatched the mobile from the arm, thrusting it into Sherlock’s open and waiting hand with a low growl.

 

“You found the woman?” Sherlock questioned when he answered the phone, stopping the DI on the other end before he could even breathe one word.

 

“We’re at her place now,” was the carefully considered reply.

 

“And?” Impatient and testy, Sherlock’s leg bounced. He already knew the answer – Lestrade’s brief silence and delay gave it away.

 

“She’s dead - has been for days by the look of things.”

 

It took the consulting detective mere seconds to respond, jumping up from the couch, phone still attached to his ear. “What’s the address?”

 

“No,” Lestrade answered, clear and strong. “I have to head back to the Yard and I’m not gonna just let you roam around a crime scene unsupervised. You scare the other officers enough when I _am_ around.”

 

“I need to see the scene – I need to see what’s there,” Sherlock argued and he didn’t need to be able to see the DI to know the man was shaking his head.

 

“Except that you can’t, can you? _See_ that is.”

 

With a low rumble emitting from his throat, Sherlock’s grip tightened around the phone as he quoted something he had read a long while ago. “The eyes are not responsible when the mind does the seeing.”

 

“That’s very inspiring but what the hell does it even mean?”

 

Sherlock was used to explaining things to people and sometimes revelled in it, especially with John whenever one of those awed expressions slipped onto the man’s face, but sometimes, it was damn infuriating and pointless. Pinching his brow, the detective talked into the phone as if he were addressing a small child. “It means that there’s more evidence beyond what the eye can see and your incompetence will mostly likely miss it.”

 

 “Well, me and my incompetence will be at Scotland Yard, along with the note we didn’t miss.”

 

Sherlock’s free hand formed a small fist that pounded against the side of his leg, and he brought the phone away from his ear, letting out a low curse, before begrudgingly answering the DI. “ _Fine_ – we’ll be there shortly.”

 

\-----

 

Shortly, as it turned out, meant that John didn’t even get to start his cup of tea let alone finish it.

 

The pair stood in Lestrade’s office ten minutes before the DI arrived, the man frustrated and agitated from the press conference he had been ordered to front. He gave the consulting detective and doctor one glance before slumping into his seat behind the desk. The press were never fun to deal with and always far too demanding when there were rumours about a serial killer on the loose. But, instead of being able to do his job – investigating the crimes – he was forced to waste time in keeping the public informed.

 

“Well?” Sherlock asked, prompting the DI to talk.

 

“Julia Henderson, dead for three or four days roughly.”

 

“Damn it,” Sherlock cursed. “Why? Why send us to her when she was already dead? What is the _point_ of leaving these clues if he’s just going to fix the game so it’s impossible to win?”

 

And yes, Sherlock was a sore loser. He got pissed when he lost – something that so rarely happened but when it did, a tantrum of some kind was sure to follow. And maybe John was just playing make believe but when the detective spoke in such a way, he liked to entertain the thought that maybe underneath it all, Sherlock felt a pang of emotion for not being able to save a life.

 

But then, John still liked to pretend Santa Claus was real around Christmas time even though he knew it wasn’t true.

 

“Maybe we’re not _meant_ to win,” Lestrade answered, his own dislike of losing showing through in the tightness in his voice.

 

Sherlock didn’t respond. His mind was already going over everything, the database that was his brain attempting to gather more information. “And what else?” he asked, hand forming a loose fist that rested just over his lips.

 

It took a moment for Lestrade to answer. He opened his mouth, considering the best way to answer the question. There had been something truly odd about the latest discovered body that whilst it meant nothing to Lestrade, he was certain it would spark something with Sherlock. “ _Well_ …” he answered, “by the looks of it, the sick bastard that killed her also shaved her hair completely.”

 

“Shaved?” John cocked his head to the side. “I’m sorry, did you say shaved? Completely…? As in, a _ll_ of her hair?”

 

“That tends to be what ‘completely’ means,” Sherlock added distractedly but both John and Lestrade ignored him, the DI nodding in response to John’s question, leaving Sherlock to his contemplation as he attempted to think of why the act sounded so familiar. And it all kept coming back to one thing. Loki. That would be the key to finding the killer, if only Sherlock could figure out what it all meant.

 

“Loki, the trickster,” he said out loud as the door creaked open behind him. He ignored it and pushed on. “He was known for working both with the gods _and_ against them so it’s likely that our killer may have some close connection to the police – maybe worked with them in the past.”

 

“Sounds a bit like you,” the newcomer sniped, a sneer firmly set in place on his face.

 

“Oh do shut up, Anderson,” Sherlock snapped back enunciating each word with careful perfection, an added dose of venom lacing them. He turned to Lestrade impatiently. “What’s he even doing here?”

 

“Forensic report,” Anderson supplied before the DI could. “On _your_ latest victim.”

 

“Anderson,” Lestrade cut in, voice firm. “Leave it on the desk.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” the other man chimed, dropping the folder onto a small pile building in front of the DI. He hung by the desk for a further moment, looking over the consulting detective.

 

“Anderson?” Lestrade went on, staring up at the man expectantly. “Was there anything else?”

 

“Er, no… not yet.” He motioned toward the door, already making his way toward it. “I’ll be back with the results from the note.”

 

“Yes, the note,” Sherlock said just as the door clicked shut, berating himself internally for not asking sooner. “Where is it?”

 

“The lab has it.”

 

A scoff slipped past Sherlock’s lips. “I need to see it.” And by see it, he meant John needed to describe it to him.

 

“You will – when the lab is done with it.” Because sometimes, Lestrade had to put his foot down, even if it was only once.

 

“And the body?”

 

“It’s already at the morgue.” Lestrade took a breath and hung his head. So much for putting his foot down. But then, what harm could Sherlock do looking at a dead body? Actually, after a second thinking about it, Lestrade decided he didn’t want to know the answer to that.

 

 “Go,” he instructed, brushing the absurd thoughts from his mind, “just go.”

 

\-----

 

Usually, a trip to the morgue meant manipulating Molly into helping. But the man that greeted the pair was most definitely not Molly. Sherlock, for reasons known only to himself, felt the need to point this out.

 

“You’re not Molly,” Sherlock voiced cautiously, confusion colouring his words, a slight crease in his brow indicating his puzzlement.

 

“No, I’m not,” the man answered, a similar trepidation in his bulldog like bark of a voice. “Molly is out sick. I’m Jenkins.”

 

“Oh? She seemed perfectly healthy when I saw her last – no signs of an oncoming illness.”

 

“If you must know,” the man growled out, “a family member passed away.”

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth lightly, using the left over air to make a single clicking noise, as if encouraging a horse to trot on or calling a dog back, or in Sherlock’s case – when thinking something over. “Her cat,” he decided.

 

It was said with such a certainty that it left the other two men wondering how he knew that. A brief, troubling thought passed through John’s mind as he wondered if Sherlock had somehow been responsible and he would find a dead cat waiting in the fridge when he got home. That was if something wasn’t already taking up the space in the fridge – then the cat would probably have been in the freezer or, God forbid, the microwave.

 

But, John told himself, Sherlock wouldn’t have harmed an innocent animal. Maybe an innocent animal carcass but certainly not an actual live animal.

 

The man, Jenkins, shook his head and took a breath, interrupting John’s thoughts. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

 

“Yes, we’re here to see the body of Julia Henderson,” Sherlock supplied, prompt and firm as if he had every right to be there because he was the world’s only consulting detective and everyone else was just in way over their heads.

 

“Then you’re in luck, she’s on the table ready. I was just about to get ready for the autopsy.”

 

They moved into the morgue, the bright lights of the room illuminating the cloth lying over the waiting body on the centre table. The single sheet covered her from head to foot and Jenkins moved forward, lowering it enough to reveal the woman. “Here she is.”

 

“May I?” John asked, motioning to the still form.

 

“Go ahead.” Jenkins nodded, backing away to don a plastic apron. “It’s a real shame, you know. I’m told she was a florist. My wife, God rest her soul, loved flowers.”

 

“How interesting,” Sherlock droned, his tone suggesting that it was anything but.

 

John just closed his eyes and shook his head in disapproval of Sherlock’s words. When he opened them again, he moved toward the dead woman, focusing on the task at hand. His gaze found her neck, the usual pale shade littered with colour – a mixture of reds and blues. He spread his fingers out, hovering just above the skin as he judged the distance of the marks there.

 

“There are bruises around her neck and throat.” He looked up to Jenkins. “She was strangled?”

 

“It would appear so.”

 

A small smile flickered across Sherlock’s lips. “Now that _is_ interesting.”

 

John’s attention moved to Sherlock, brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”

 

“Strangulation – indicating a possible intimacy between the victim and her murderer.” He paused, thinking it over. “A lover perhaps?”

 

“Are you saying this Loki character knew her?”

 

“Very _good_ , John,” Sherlock praised, and had he been into physical mockery, there was no doubt between them that he would have patted John on the head. “Now you’re beginning to really _see_. If the killer knew her, by delving into who Julia Henderson was, we should be able to discover who our killer is.”

 

“Well, that’s great – isn’t it?”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer. His brow was burrowed and his lips pulled together into a thin line. “Why does this all sound so familiar?”

 

And John knew he should have been used to the way Sherlock worked. He should have been used to the verbal prompting that the detective seemed to need whenever the inner workings of his mind stayed exactly there – inside his mind, leaving everybody else puzzled as to just what the hell he was talking about. And in a way, he _was_ used to it. It didn’t stop the slight frustration from causing the corner of his mouth to twitch upward momentarily though. “Why does _what_ sound familiar?”

 

“ _This_ ,” Sherlock motioned his arm in the general direction of where he imagined the body to be. “The first two victims had very little in common – nothing obvious that could link them directly except for our killer himself – Loki… And the first victim, the girl – the only thing to stand out was the missing necklace. But the man – he put a lot more effort in with that one, setting fire to him…” His eyes widened and he let go of a long breath, understanding dawning on him. “Oh…”

 

“Oh?”

 

“The necklace, the falcon and the fire, and now _this_. An unfaithful lover with her hair shaved.”

 

John’s eyes flickered to the woman then back to Sherlock, uncertain. “Are you saying she was having an affair?”

 

“ _Of course_ she was having an affair – the flowers, the way she was killed. And her husband, he’s away on business remember?”

 

“Right – so what does that mean?”

 

“Don’t you see? He’s recreating Loki’s crimes… in a sense anyway.”

 

“Which means _what_ exactly?”

 

“It’s how he chooses his victims – he’s choosing them based on how they match the myths. Which means the next one will most likely be…” The room fell into silence, Sherlock’s thoughts trailing off, his sentence left unfinished and features falling, shoulders slumping just ever so slightly.

 

“Be what?” John asked when he didn’t continue.

 

“A brother.”

 

“A brother…” John repeated, lips thinned as he thought it over and attempted to figure out why the information had caused Sherlock to stall.

 

“Of course,” Sherlock spat, the venom aimed inward, his face scrunching up. “How did I not see it before?”

 

“Excuse me?” John questioned, eager to remind the consulting detective that he did not have a direct link to Sherlock’s brain and therefore could not read his mind. “See _what_ before?”

 

Realisation was written across Sherlock’s features, glistening deep in his grey-blue eyes. “Höðr,” he breathed as if John should know then exactly what or who Höðr was without him elaborating. When John remained silent, blankly staring at the detective, Sherlock carried on. “He was tricked into killing his own brother.”

 

“Right, okay… yes. And how does that help us?”

 

“He was also blind.”


	7. Chapter 7

 

“So you think _Mycroft_ is in danger? You think this guy is going to try and trick you into killing your own brother?” John stood staring across the morgue at Sherlock. Jenkins and the woman’s body were forgotten, just background noise, the good doctor’s thoughts far too preoccupied with trying to process what Sherlock had just said and the implications behind it.

 

“We need to focus on finding the killer,” was not quite the response John had expected.

 

He opened his mouth and closed it again, shaking his head minutely from side to side. “Did you hear what I just said?”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Of course I heard.” He pointed to his eyes, a twisted scowl falling into place on his features. “I’m blind, remember? Not deaf.”

 

Agitated and feeling suddenly aware of Jenkins eyes on him – the idea of holding this discussion in front of the man making John uncomfortable – John crossed the short distance to Sherlock and gripped the man’s elbow, guiding him into a corner of the room. His voice dropped, hushed as he continued, stubbornly wishing for an actual answer to his first question despite Sherlock’s stabs. “ _And_?”

 

“You have _met_ my brother, haven’t you, John?”

 

John just stared because even though he _had_ met Mycroft and knew the man was just as intelligent and deadly as Sherlock, even more so with his position in the government, he was still Sherlock’s brother. “Your level of concern is touching, Sherlock. It really is.”

 

There was an exaggerated huff and not just a roll of the eyes but a roll of the head and shoulders too. “Concern, John, will not find our killer. Nor will it save his next victim – whoever that may be. Now, regarding Mycroft’s safety – do you really believe our killer could get close enough to do any real harm to him? They would only have to sneeze in his direction and Mycroft’s men would light him up like a Christmas tree. Ergo, we should focus our attention on discovering the identity of the killer.”

 

And yes, John knew very well that Mycroft no doubt had snipers hidden all over London for just such an instance, but Sherlock was forgetting something – or perhaps he was just ignoring it. “But you said Loki didn’t kill the brother, you said Ha – or, hwar, whatever his name – did.”

 

“Then the solution is simple – however much it may pain me, I will just have to avoid Mycroft. That seems fairly easy enough.”

 

“Right,” John replied, short and terse, his eyes still locked on Sherlock and jaw as tight as his soldier’s posture. “Are you at least going to warn him?”

 

“You may waste your time doing so if you please. I doubt it will do much good. Needless to say that Mycroft is used to threats on his life by now.”

 

John scoffed and turned away from Sherlock pulling his mobile from his pocket. He cast a wary glance to Jenkins, the man hovering over the still form of Mrs. Henderson, before working at the keypad of his phone. Only half of his mind was on the text he was writing – and if he were honest with himself he knew calling would be a more polite way to say ‘ _there’s a psychopath on the loose around London and you could very well be his next victim, have a nice day’_ but dealing with one Holmes brother at a time was enough for John. The other half of John’s mind idly wondered how thick the film on his cup of tea from earlier would be by the time they eventually got back home. 

 

“So, are we done here?” he questioned, cocking his head to the side when he was done with the text. “Or is there something else you need me to check before we go? A love bite maybe?”

 

“Don’t be crass, John. It doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock drawled

 

“Crass? _I’m_ being crass?” John quizzed before biting his tongue and taking a deep breath. “Let’s just… let’s go and find a killer before I help him to finish the job.”

 

And Sherlock just smiled that sly little smile of his that said more than words could. It was disturbingly affectionate – or as close to being affectionate as Sherlock came – and filled with playful mischief that echoed in the lines of his face and shined clearly in his eyes. He may not have been able to see through them, but that didn’t mean others couldn’t see into him through the expressions written in them.

 

\-----

 

To catch a killer. A general rule for such an activity tends to be that one must first find the killer – or have the killer find you, but John wasn’t too keen on that idea. Sherlock wasn’t fussed either way so long as, in the end, he won. But in order to do so, Sherlock decided that he needed to look into Julia Henderson’s past. Or rather, he decided that _they_ needed to do so.

 

“I can give you ten minutes,” Lestrade had said when he had met Sherlock and John at the driveway to the Henderson home sometime after lunch. Forensics had been finishing up and Lestrade had a spare half hour in which he could babysit the consulting detective and ensure he didn’t do anything _too_ Sherlock.

 

John had no clue what they were looking for or what exactly it was that Sherlock expected to find but he said nothing. He just stared at the framed photo on the entrance hall wall. It showed the florist shop and two women standing outside of it. The first, with her lengthy blonde hair, he vaguely recognised as Julia Henderson, though he had to admit she looked pretty different with hair. As for the second woman, according to the small golden plaque at the bottom of the frame, she was Elsie J.

 

“Who’s this?” he asked, turning to Lestrade and pointing to the photo in hopes that the inspector had more insight into the woman than just a name and face – such as her relationship with Julia. After all, if she was a friend then Sherlock would no doubt wish to question her in order to find Julia’s secret lover, and therefore the killer.

 

“Business partner,” Lestrade answered – because even without Sherlock’s help, he was capable of doing his job. His voice was gruff, his hands shoved loosely into his pockets as he regarded both John and the photo. “Died last year in a car crash.”

 

“Ah.” So unless they held a séance or Sherlock happened to have a Ouija board lying about – which John really wouldn’t have put past the man – it would be impossible to question the woman.

 

“And her family?” Sherlock asked, swinging away from the entrance to the living room to face the pair. “Did you find any nearby? Brothers, sisters? Parents?”

 

Lestrade shook his head, ignoring the voice at the back of his head that told him Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see the movement. “Only child – both parents dead and we haven’t been able to locate anyone else yet.”

 

John frowned, vaguely recalling what the redhead at the shop had said about Mr. Henderson being away on a business trip. One part of him wondered if the man even know his wife was dead yet whilst the other part wondered if he had been in on it. “What about her husband?”

 

“His flight’s due in tomorrow afternoon – we’ll have a car waiting ready for him.”

 

“Perfect,” Sherlock answered, sharp and quick, his mind already going over potential questions even as he still tried to pick up on anything inside the house that could lead them to the killer – the slightest whiff of aftershave, the whirring of a computer or just something that was out of place. “I need to talk with him as soon as he lands.”

 

Lestrade opened his mouth to argue, one hand moving up to rub at his temples. “You can talk to him as soon as _we’re_ done with him,” he offered as a compromise, already continuing on before Sherlock could interrupt him and disagree. “Now, is that it? You done? Or would you like to sniff around the back garden for buried bones?”

 

“Not… quite.” The consulting detective spun on the spot to face the living room once more and breathed deep, concentration lining his features.

 

“What now?”

 

“I need absolute silence,” Sherlock announced. “ _Don’t_ … even breathe.”

 

And for some reason, both John and Lestrade found themselves holding their breath. They couldn’t quite explain the effect that Sherlock had but there was something about the way he said things, the urgency and importance behind each instruction, and neither of them wanted to break the thought cycle going on in Sherlock’s mind. Neither wanted to be responsible for a distraction that could lead to a lost clue – or an extremely frustrated Sherlock.

 

“Did you check her computer?” Sherlock questioned, breaking the silence that had fallen. Only, it hadn’t been complete silence – a low buzz, a light whirring, mere background noise to the average listener.

 

“Her computer?”

 

The inspector didn’t bother to argue. He didn’t even bother to ask why. If Sherlock had brought it up, then the man must have had a reason. As such, they found themselves crowded around the small workstation at the back of the living room. The power light flashed and speakers hummed. Sherlock stretched out a hand and found the keyboard, his lengthy forefinger pressing down on the spacebar just once, and as if it was a miracle touch, the computer whirred into life and the desktop appeared.

 

 _“…No, the first part of the party of the first part.”_

The words rang from the speakers, the old movie clip playing at full screen – the very last thing to have been playing before the computer had been placed into its state of sleep.

 

“What is this?” Lestrade asked, watching the scene unfold.

 

“Night at the Opera,” John answered before he could stop himself even though he knew that wasn’t what the inspector had meant. He had watched the old black and white movie with Sarah one night.

 

“Yeah, but what’s it doing on the computer?”

 

Sherlock supplied the answer to that. “It’s meant to be a clue.”

 

“A clue?”

 

 _“Now what have we got left?”_

 _“Well, I’ve got about a foot and a half.”_

“Yes. It’s his way of telling us who the next victim will be.”

 

Lestrade frowned, oblivious as to what information they could gather from an old movie. “So he’s planning on what, offing one of the Marx brothers? He’s a little late for that, isn’t he?”

 

Sherlock just remained silent. John understood the message clearly. The clip confirmed the consulting detective’s earlier thoughts of Mycroft being the next intended target.

 

 _“Well, you should have come to the first party. We didn’t get home until around four in the morning… I was blind for three days.”_

John pulled his phone from his pocket, considering the blank screen for a moment. Since he had messaged the elder Holmes’ brother earlier that day, he had yet to hear a reply. “Sherlock…” he started, but the other man ignored him, turning on his heel and already making his way back toward the exit, using his hands to guide him around the furniture.

 

“Henderson,” Sherlock called back. “As soon as he lands, I need to speak with him.”

 

\-----

 

Back at 221b Baker Street, neither John nor Sherlock broached the topic of the next victim. John had opened his mouth to do so once but the deafening silence that hung on the air was enough to make him chicken out. To say the detective was concerned would be an exaggeration. But he did not like being threatened. He was frustrated and fuming at the thought that this man, some half-wit killer who had gotten a taste for murder, believed he could intimidate _Sherlock_ by playing on his family ties. It was inconvenient and idiotic. And it would not distract Sherlock from what he should have been doing in the first place – tracking down the killer.

 

“Mr Henderson,” he greeted the dead woman’s husband the next day outside of the interview room.

 

“I-I’m sorry, who are you?” the man questioned, his frame slim and toned but ever so slightly filled out just around the edges.

 

“Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes,” he answered, lip twitching upward at the corner, so brief that the false smile could have been mistaken for a facial spasm. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your wife.”

 

“I thought,” the man started, swallowing hard under Sherlock’s blind gaze. “I thought I’d already answered all the questions from the police.”

 

“From the police, yes – but I’m not with the police.”

 

The man stared and John thought idly that ‘shell shocked’ would be quite an appropriate way to describe the expression on Henderson’s face.

 

“Were you aware that your wife was having an affair?” Sherlock asked.

 

“I’m sorry?” A flicker of anger, disbelief and hurt passed through the man’s eyes.

 

“An affair, Mr. Henderson. Was your wife having an affair?”

 

“Julia would never… my wife is…” He closed his eyes briefly, taking a shaky breath. “ _Was_ a good woman.”

 

“And how was your relationship with her?”

 

“It was _fine_. We were fine… rocky, I suppose, but no more so than anyone else.” Shoulders tense, the man’s eyes feel to the floor, his lips twisted as he shuffled his weight from foot to foot.

 

Sherlock listened intently. “That’s not quite true now, is it, Mr. Henderson? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

 

“Why should I tell you anything?”

 

“Because I am the man who is going to find your wife’s murderer. Now, tell me, Mr. Henderson – how was your relationship with your wife?”

 

“It was fine,” the man repeated, strained, and then he looked Sherlock in the face. “Until about a year ago.”

 

“Around the same time her business partner died?”

 

“ _No_ ,” the man answered, shaking his head. “Around the same time her best friend died. They shared everything and when Elsie died, they even shared that – it killed Julia. Made her distant. She was never the same…”

 

\----

 

“You didn’t have to speak to him like that, you know?” John had said later, when the pair were alone again.

 

“And how should I have spoken to him?” Sherlock asked in return. “Should I have consoled him? What good would that have done?”

 

John sighed, staring out of the taxi window. “It might have made him feel better.”

 

Sherlock snorted but said nothing.

 

“Do you care for _anyone_ beside yourself, Sherlock?” The question tumbled from John’s lips before he had a chance to stop it and he cursed himself internally as soon as he heard the words ringing in his own ears. He kept his eyes trained on the window and the passing streets, not wishing to the see the consulting detective’s reaction – or lack of.

 

“There is no room for caring in my life, John,” was the too calm, too quiet response and the topic was dropped, the car pulling up outside of their flat.

 

Neither spoke again until the sky was tinged with darkened blue and the silence had gotten to be too much for the doctor. His hands were wrapped around a warm cup of tea, half the liquid drained, and he watched Sherlock pace the floor before the sofa from the comfort of his armchair. “What now?”

 

“Now? Now we put the pieces together and attempt to figure out who our killer is. Who Loki is…” Sherlock stopped in his pacing and turned toward John. “Think, John, what do we know about our killer?”

 

“He’s a fast runner?” John offered, remembering how he had been unable to catch up to the silhouette of a man in the alleyway before.

 

“Superficial, John. What else?”

 

“Err… he knew Julia Henderson and she was the first to die even though she was the third discovered.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, moving his hands before him as if conducting a silent orchestra. “So what does that tell us?”

 

“It tells us…” but John had nothing. He didn’t know what it told them. It told _him_ that the guy was a psychopath but he doubted Sherlock was looking for such an answer. “I don’t know. What does it tell us?”

 

“Killing her gave him a taste for murder… it gave him the courage to go further. A man like that, he’s probably surrounded himself by death. It excites him. But it wasn’t until Julia that he acted on it.”

 

“How does that help us?”

 

Sherlock fell still. “I don’t know… but it all leads back to Julia.”

 

“Because she was supposed to be having an affair with him? Her husband didn’t seem convinced.”

 

“They rarely are.” The detective waved a dismissive hand. “But remember what he said – ‘They shared everything’.”

 

“Julia and Elsie… yes.” John frowned, tea abandoned in favour of watching Sherlock work through the problem. “What are you saying?”

 

“ _Everything_ ,” Sherlock repeated and John only blinked, his lips pursed in puzzlement. “Possibly even lovers.”

 

“Are you suggesting that Julia was having an affair with someone close to Elsie?”

 

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “It’s a perfectly sound theory.”

 

“Then that’s great – we’ll get onto Lestrade in the morning and get him t-” But a knock echoing up from the front door stopped John from finishing just what they would get Lestrade to do. He sighed and put his cup on the table.

 

“Mrs. Hudson will get it,” Sherlock said with bored dismissal. Uninvited guests were unwelcome when they were on the verge of a breakthrough in the case.

 

“ _Mrs._ _Hudson_ is having tea with Mrs. Turner. Next door.” John stood, already making his way toward stairs. “She’s probably locked herself out and needs one of us to let her in.”

 

He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s response, heading down the stairs and to the front door where the rapping had now ceased. With ease, he opened the door to be greeted by nothing but air. Only, upon closer inspection, there was something there. A clear plastic vase sat on the doorstep – white daisies placed inside.

 

“Sherlock!” he called back up the stairs but he pushed himself out of the door, looking up and down the street for anyone out of place, anyone that looked like they shouldn’t have been there. There was no one.

 

He grabbed the flowers, their familiar fragrance drifting up to him as he turned back into the house.

 

“Sherlock!” he cried out again, a frown creasing at his brow because that fragrance wasn’t the same as at the second crime scene or the flower shop. It _was_ familiar but it wasn’t flowers. And it wasn’t until he took a deeper breath, attempting to identify just _what_ it was and _why_ it was so damn familiar, that it hit him – along with a sudden light-headedness.

 

The vase slipped from his grip and he staggered back toward the stairs because it was fine… it wasn’t potent enough to knock someone out. Unless of course, a further dose was added by a stranger that decided to clamp a cloth over John’s mouth just as he attempted to shout Sherlock’s name for a third time.

 

And suddenly John couldn’t breathe and his head was foggy and all he could think as the darkness came and his body slumped was, ‘ _does this smell like chloroform to you?’_


	8. Chapter 8

 

Sherlock was left alone with his thoughts. The silence should have been comforting but it set him on edge. The air still as John’s footsteps died away the closer he got to the door, the further away he got from Sherlock. And something was wrong.

 

Sherlock knew it. The puzzle, the game that was in play, something was missing. Or a piece was in the wrong place – Sherlock couldn’t decide which it was. And without John there as his sounding board, without the man to listen to his half-formed thoughts, Sherlock found it impossible to focus on what was important because that same thought kept creeping back in, niggling at the back of mind.

 

Something was wrong.

 

And John’s voice broke through Sherlock’s internal monologue and the speeding ideas so fleeting that no words had yet been attached to them. The consulting detective frowned and strained his ears, listening intently. Sure enough, the doctor called again – urgent. And that thought from before grew louder.

 

Wrong. Wrong. _Wrong._

 

Heartbeat quickening, he pushed himself up, making to move toward the door.

 

 _Thump_.

 

His foot smashed against the table leg and he threw out a slew of curses at the infernal piece of furniture for not moving out of the way before also cursing the man that had disappeared to check on the front door. After all, it wouldn’t have happened if John had been there to guide him like he was supposed to be. So really, the doctor was to blame. The doctor and the table.

 

And just where was John anyway?

 

Footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock looked up just as the door creaked opened. All he could make out were smudges of light but that didn’t stop him from trying. It didn’t stop him from trying to see _John_.

 

“You broke my concentration,” he berated the presence in the doorway because there was someone there and who else could it be but the good doctor? “And now I’ve stumped my toe – I hope you’re happy. I thought you were a doctor – you should know better than to leave a blind man alone, let alone call out for him.”

 

Silence. It stretched out between him and the presence that had to be John.

 

 _Wrong._

 

And yet, it didn’t feel like John. Sherlock was still missing something. And his damn heart refused to calm itself.

 

Wrong. Something was _wrong_.

 

He felt his heart skip a beat in his chest and the silence continued.

 

 _Wrong_.

 

Then it clicked into place.

 

He breathed deep, voice lowering. “You’re not John.”

 

The presence didn’t answer.

 

“Where is he?” Sherlock demanded, fist clenching at his side.

 

Still, the presence refused to answer.

 

“Tell me!”

 

But the only reply he received was the shuffling of feet and it dawned on him then, the reason that the presence refused to speak. It all made sense. And though it still felt wrong, he was starting to understand why.

 

“I know you, don’t I?” He took a step forward, leg brushing against the sofa to guide him. “That’s why you won’t answer me… you don’t want to give the game away too soon.”

 

More shuffling and footsteps. The door clicked shut and the stairs creaked, the presence disappearing.

 

Sherlock was rooted to the spot. Frozen. His chest tightened, painful, a dull ache spreading out from where his heart thumped madly within his ribcage. And his mind spun, raced with a dozen and a half thoughts all flying in different directions, colliding, crashing against each other and the wall of his skull. Round and round. Questions, reasonings, deductions.

 

The presence. _John_. Who was it? _John._ What did they want? _John._ Why were they here? _JOHN!_

His feet were moving and he couldn’t remember giving them permission to do so. But he knew that he needed to be doing something. He needed to be following the presence that had come and done something to John.

 

“John!” Sherlock called out, even though his rational mind knew the doctor wouldn’t answer. But he _should_ have answered. He was John and he always answered Sherlock. No matter how frustrated he was or how irritating Sherlock’s request was, John always answered.

 

But he wasn’t answering now.

 

Sherlock tripped. Stumbled. His feet dragged along the carpet, his fingertips skimming it as he pushed himself forward, up, forcing himself toward the door.

 

“John!” he called once more, riving the door open with so much force he could hear the hinges protesting.

 

He was halfway down the stairs before he heard anything else. A noise from below, barely anything but enough to make him pause. Enough to make him listen.

 

“John?” he questioned, voice an uncertain whisper. The response was not what he wanted.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson spoke up, like a mother addressing a child with dirt on their clothes and mud tracks across the carpet behind them. “What a mess…”

 

“Where is he, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock demanded, hurrying down the last few steps and pushing toward the landlady.

 

“Where is who, dear?” she asked, light, oblivious as she tsked and clucked her tongue. “Just look at these petals – all over the floor.”

 

“The _man_ , Mrs. Hudson. The man. Where is here? Where did he go?” He stopped just short of where he heard her.

 

“Man? There was no man.” She let go of a long breath. “These poor flowers. It’s a shame you know – flowers should be looked after.”

 

Flowers?

 

“Don’t touch them!” he ordered, sharp, and he heard the woman skitter and jump to her feet from shock.

 

“Sherlock-” she began to protest, but he didn’t let her continue.

 

“The man – he was just here,” he went on, dismissing the flowers for the moment but knowing without a doubt that they had been involved in whatever had happened to John. Poison? “You _must_ have seen him.”

 

“There was no one here,” she answered. “The door was wide open but there was no one here.”

 

And that frustrated Sherlock further because Mrs. Hudson had to have seen him. Even if she hadn’t seen him exit the flat, she had to have seen him on the street. A back, merging with the crowd. A figure, slipping into a car… with _John_. But it was pointless. She wouldn’t remember anything like that. She didn’t see. She didn’t _observe_.

 

“The flowers,” he continued instead. “Is there a note with the flowers?”

 

She hesitated but he heard her bend down and pick something up. “There’s a card here – addressed to you and Dr. Watson.”

 

“Where is it from, Mrs. Hudson?”

 

“Oh, you’re being invited somewhere but it doesn’t say where,” she said, cheery and bright. “That’ll be nice for you, dear. Get you out and about, away from all these nasty murders. Do you and your doctor some good. You need to treat him every so often you know.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” he snapped, voice a vicious growl emitting from low in his chest and rising all the way to his throat. “Where is the card from?”

 

It took her a moment to answer, and when she did, Sherlock let go of a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “H. and J. Flowers. Sherlock, dear…”

 

But whatever she had to say, Sherlock wasn’t interested in. His mind was already going over what needed to be done. Anything she had to say was just a distraction.

 

“Do you still have Dr. Watson’s cane?” he asked, knowing that John had entrusted the woman with it. He hadn’t seen it around the flat and he doubted the doctor had kept in it his room any longer than he had to – not wanting the reminder each time he woke up. But he was convinced, at the same time, that the man would have been unable to let go completely.

 

And he was right – after all, to John, the cane was not just a reminder of the war but of what had come before, before Sherlock had showed him what could be. Though the doctor had never said as much to Sherlock, nor did he intend to.

 

“I need his cane,” Sherlock went on to say, waiting with barely controlled frustration as the woman dashed off and fetched it for him. It was no white stick and it was certainly no John Watson but it was the best thing he had at hand. It would, at the very least, keep him from crashing into things – so he hoped. “Now, Mrs. Hudson, if you would be so kind as to call me a cab.”

 

If she objected, she didn’t say so. Though that probably had more to do with not wishing to argue or have her head chewed off further. She was a smart woman at times, and silently giving into Sherlock, calling him a taxi and helping him into it, was definitely one of those times.

 

The door to the cab was closed and Sherlock gave his instructions to the driver, passing him several notes from inside his wallet to cover the fare and then some. It could have been fifty or it could have been a hundred pound but Sherlock didn’t care, so long as the cabbie took the quickest, most direct route to their destination.

 

H. and J. Flowers.

 

Sherlock’s leg bounced, his mind spun, and one hand rested over his lips as he thought. It all came back to the florist. It all came back to Julia Henderson. She was the murderer’s first true victim. She was the one with a link to him. Julia and Elsie. But what was Sherlock missing?

 

“You forget to buy the wife an anniversary gift?” the driver asked from up front, the man’s cockney accent coming through. “It’ll take more than flowers to get back in her good books.”

 

“I could care little about such things,” Sherlock informed the man. Had he not required the driver’s services, his response would have been sharper, shorter, more impatient and impolite. It would have also been counter-productive.

 

“Then what’s the rush?”

 

Sherlock glared outward, leg slowly stilling as a cold calmness set in. “I’m late for a meeting.”

 

The driver scoffed. “Must be a pretty important meeting.”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

Silence returned and Sherlock went over all he knew. It was a confusing mess inside his mind, facts and thoughts merging together, overlapping one another. Three murders. Loki. They were all re-enactments, in a sense, of his crimes. That much Sherlock had figured out. That much he knew clearly, without a doubt. Just as he knew, even without the clue on the Henderson’s computer, that the next crime – the next murder – was supposed to be a brother.

 

Mycroft. A man that Sherlock had no reason to worry for because getting to Mycroft Holmes was more difficult than getting to the Prime Minister or the Queen. It was damn near impossible. Which was why it was supposed to be Mycroft. _Mycroft_. Not John.

 

Not _John._

 

“Funny place for a meeting mind,” the driver spoke up again. “A flower shop.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock agreed, grip tightening momentarily around John’s cane.

 

He wanted nothing more than to tell the man to keep quiet but in truth, the man’s words allowed Sherlock’s mind to focus on what was right in front of him instead of going over what should have been, not what was. It allowed his mind to get ever so slightly back on track – back to a problem he _could_ solve.

 

The killer and his link to the shop. H. and J. Flowers.

 

Julia Henderson and Elsie _what_? Had Lestrade mentioned her surname? Had Mr. Henderson? And what about _her_ lover, _her_ husband – the one Sherlock was so sure Julia had been ‘sharing’?

 

H. and J. Flowers. Julia H. Elsie J.

 

But what did that tell him about the killer?

 

“Here we go,” the cabbie announced and the car came to a stop. “You need a hand there, mate?”

 

“I’m quite capable, thank you.” Distracted by his high speed thoughts, Sherlock climbed from the cab, closing the door behind him, earlier deductions returning to him.

 

 _A man like that, he’s probably surrounded himself by death._

 

“Suit yourself then. Good luck with your meeting.”

 

But the words went unheard. Sherlock was already making his way forward, using the cane to help guide him.

 

 _“My wife, God rest her soul, loved flowers.”_

 

“I’m glad you could make it, Mr. Holmes,” a familiar bulldog bark echoed in his direction and Sherlock came to a standstill. “I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you but, technically, we’ve already met once.”

 

Jenkins… Elsie Jenkins?

 

“And I would hardly say it’s a pleasure at all,” Sherlock retorted. “Now, where is John? What have you done with him?”


	9. Chapter 9

 

“Dr. Watson is just fine – nothing worse than a minor headache from the chloroform. How long he stays fine is up to you.” Keys jangled, metal clanked and then the door to the florist opened. The small bell overhead rang out, the noise echoing in the deadened silence of the flower shop – the type of silence that came with night. The man stepped inside. “This way, Mr. Holmes. Your doctor is waiting for us through the back.”

 

Sherlock took a step forward, following the man’s voice into the store. When the door was closed and locked once more, Jenkins led the way. His footsteps and voice guided Sherlock in the general direction and John’s cane stopped the detective from crashing into anything. The feel of it in his grip gave him something to focus on, so he could keep his features expressionless… bored. He refused to show the man before him anything other than the icy cold exterior most people knew him for.

 

“After Elsie’s accident, Julia struggled to keep the business open,” Jenkins explained and Sherlock only listened for lack of anything better to do. “So I became a silent partner – helped her out here and there.”

 

“And let me guess, that was when the affair started?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, the silent insult of ‘dull’ remaining unsaid, poised to drop from his tongue but stopped from doing so when another door was opened and he heard a low grumble from just beyond. He only just stopped himself from breathing his friend’s name out, swallowing it thickly instead.

 

Had Sherlock been able to see when he moved into that small backroom of the flower shop, he would have seen a perfectly kept kitchenette area just off to the left and several half made bouquets off to the right, lined up relatively neatly on lopsided shelving. He would have also seen a table in the centre of the room, two guns placed upon it and two chairs either side. The chair closest to the door was vacant whilst the opposite chair held a particularly drowsy John Watson – his hands tied roughly behind his back and to the cheap wooden chair.

 

“Sherlock?” John questioned, looking up from his place at the table. His vision still swam, blurred around the edges, but the longer he was awake, the clearer it became. The same could not be said of the headache that pounded violently behind his eyes – it had no intention of shifting.

 

“Please,” Jenkins said, moving forward and scraping the empty seat across the floor for Sherlock, “Mr. Holmes, take a seat.”

 

Sherlock did as he was instructed, using his hands to guide himself into the seat. When settled, he leaned the cane against the table and placed his palms down on the plastic tabletop. “John,” he finally allowed himself to say, keeping the quiver from his voice, or so he hoped.

 

A tight smile slipped onto the doctor’s face and he let go of a slightly nervous laugh. “This is becoming a habit…”

 

“Truly,” Sherlock remarked in return. “It would appear that living with me is quite detrimental to your health.”

 

“Doesn’t exactly help the social life either.”

 

A flicker of a smile played at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth but he said nothing further to his friend, choosing to address the kidnapper and murderer instead. “You can let him go now. You have me – John is of no more use to you.”

 

Jenkins clucked his tongue and circled the table. Sherlock listened to his every step as John watched the man from the corner of his eyes – catching the flash of a third gun as the barrel reflected the low light in the room. “That’s not how the game works, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson here is what makes this part so interesting. He’s the key to making this fun for you and me.”

 

“And just what is the game?” Sherlock asked. “Why go through all of this? You can’t have come up with it all by yourself?”

 

“You would be correct in your assumption.”

 

“Then tell me – who?” Deadly calm, Sherlock ignored the erratic beating of his heart and the burning questions of why John was needed to make the game fun. Why John at all? “No doubt Julia intended to come clean to her husband and that was why you killed her. But the other two, who put you onto them?”

 

Jenkins came to a stop. “A very nice young man offered to help me out, on one condition.”

 

 _Moriarty_.

 

Neither Sherlock nor John needed to hear the name to know that was who Jenkins was referring to.

 

“And what was the condition?” Bored, uninterested – at least that was the impression Sherlock gave when questioning the man.

 

“That I play a game with a friend of his – make him dance.” The man leaned forward, resting his hands against the table, the metal from the gun clinking against the plastic surface. “Only, I don’t think you’ll like this game very much as, unfortunately, you lose either way.”

 

Silence echoed out. Within it, three hearts thrummed, completely ignorant of each other – unsurprising as hearts do have a terrible habit of being awfully selfish at times. Only when Jenkins moved away from the table, circling the pair again, was the silence broken and Sherlock spoke.

 

“I have no intention of dancing for your entertainment.”

 

“Well, you really don’t have that much of a choice, Mr. Holmes.”

 

Sherlock let go of a long, controlled breath and leaned back in his seat, palms still firmly set on the table. He looked no different than a bored businessman in a boring business meeting, wishing to be anywhere else. “And why should I play your game when you keep changing the rules?” It was a step away from a demand, said with the most courteous tone that Sherlock could muster – which, in that moment, was all but non-existent.

 

“I haven’t changed the rules. Nor do I intend to.”

 

The detective scoffed. “Your last clue clearly pointed at a brother and if you were to stick to the myth, it should be Mycroft sitting across the table from me – not Dr. Watson.” He paused for a fraction of a second, letting the words hang in the air. “Were you incapable of gaining access to my brother or just too intimidated to try?”

 

Though Sherlock couldn’t see the twisted sneer that spread across Jenkins’ face, John could. He could see it all too well, along with the deadly glint in the man’s eyes that almost matched the one in Sherlock’s.

 

Jenkins leaned in so close to Sherlock that his breath caressed the detective’s cheek like a dead lover’s hand. “On the contrary, Mr. Holmes. As, you see, I never did specify a blood bond. A brother does not always imply a family relation. It can, for example, refer to a brother in arms. Or, is someone as uncaring as yourself unfamiliar with such a phrase?” His eyes flashed to John, meeting blue with a cold malice. “I am sure our army doctor here is quite aware of the bonds created on the battlefield. Isn’t that right, Dr. Watson?”

 

John remained quiet. His gaze focused on Sherlock, studying every inch of the detective but the man gave nothing away. He was good at that – hiding emotions, pushing them away because they were nothing more than an inconvenience. And, had it not been for the dampened sweat beneath his hands on the tabletop – because apparently even Sherlock Holmes could not control _every_ aspect of himself – John would have thought the man completely unaffected.

 

As it was, John sat there cursing his own stupidity because this information didn’t seem to surprise Sherlock all that much. And if the detective was honest with his friend, he would have mentioned that the thought – no, _fear_ – had crossed his mind briefly earlier.

 

Sherlock swallowed, the motion barely visible. “How does this part of the game work?”

 

Jenkins beamed and moved back. He had been waiting for this. His very core vibrated with excitement. “There are two guns on the table before you,” he explained.

 

He put his own gun away and picked up one from the table, pushing the other across the surface toward John before moving to untie the doctor’s binds. John eyed the weapon warily but did not touch, watching the man move back over to Sherlock, toying with the clip of the other gun instead.

 

“One fun is filled with blanks,” Jenkins continued, and he motioned to John to pick the other gun up. “Go ahead, Dr. Watson. Test it.”

 

Jaw tensed, John reached out and took the gun up. He studied it, releasing the clip and looking over the bullets before sliding it back together.

 

“Test it,” Jenkins repeated.

 

And John did. He aimed it at Jenkins and pulled the trigger. The man remained unharmed, lips twitching upward in a sick form of glee. He levelled the gun in his own hands at John, finger resting on the trigger.

 

“And the other –” The muzzle moved a fraction to the left and Jenkins fired the gun. The shot went wide, just as he had intended it to, but the point was made all the same. “– is filled with _real_ bullets. Correct, Dr. Watson?”

 

“Yes,” John answered through clenched teeth, refusing to look away from the man, the gun once more trained over the doctor’s heart.

 

“The rules are simple.” Jenkins placed the gun back on the table and John did the same, watching as the man moved both weapons to sit mere inches from Sherlock’s fingertips. “Using your deductive skills, choose the one filled with blanks and test it by shooting at Dr. Watson here. Don’t worry, I’ll steady your hand to make sure you don’t miss.”

 

When neither of the other men spoke, he continued further. “If, at any point, Dr. Watson attempts to give you any hints – I will kill you both.”

 

As if to prove his point, he drew out his gun again.

 

John watched him closely, waiting on Sherlock’s reply, knowing very well that there was a catch. Sherlock knew too. Because otherwise, the game would just be too easy.

 

“You said I lose either way,” Sherlock reminded him.

 

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

 

“If I chose the right gun, how could I possibly lose?”

 

And here, a maniacal grin, that reminded John far too much of an overzealous crocodile, lit up the man’s face. “Because, whichever gun you don’t choose, is the one I’ll use on you.”

 

Silence. Brief. Contemplative.

 

“And what makes you think I won’t just turn the gun on you?” Sherlock asked eventually.

 

Jenkins laughed. “You won’t, because I have a very fast trigger finger.” He moved behind Sherlock and pressed his gun up against the detective’s temple – cold metal against pale skin. “And _I_ can see.”

 

“If I won’t do it?”

 

“Then I just kill you both.”

 

The room was cold, the air empty, feeling much more like the morgue the two men had first met Jenkins in than the back of a flower shop.

 

“So, I choose the right gun and John walks free?”

 

“Sherlock-” John protested, but he was cut short.

 

“Or you choose the wrong one and _you_ walk free.”

 

It took several moments for Sherlock to move. When he did, his actions were almost robotic – a machine going through the motions. Nothing at all like a man who was handling a gun that would be either the death of himself or the death of the man before him – his flatmate, his friend. There was nothing unsure in his movements, no uncertainty. It was clinical. No shaking of the hand, no trepidation.

 

And he moved from one gun to the other, making his deductions before finally drawing back, having decided which one held the blanks and which gun would kill its target.

 

“As expected for a man of your intelligence,” Jenkins remarked.

 

John could only close his eyes briefly in an attempt to collect himself. When he opened them, Sherlock’s hand was outstretched again, hovering over each gun in turn.

 

“Sherlock – no… don’t,” John breathed, eyes following the movements of that hand.

 

Don’t be an idiot. Don’t start to care now. Don’t play the game. Just don’t. Don’t…

 

And when those long, slender fingers wrapped around the handle of the left gun, John felt his breath catch in his chest. The detective raised his hand, the gun firmly in his grip – and Jenkins guided the sights so they were aimed at John’s forehead, centred, unwavering.

 

“I’m sorry, John,” was all Sherlock said, emotionless, flat.

 

Then he pulled the trigger.


	10. Chapter 10

Several things appeared to happen at once.

 

Sherlock’s finger squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out. And John was sent jerking backwards. His chair clattered to the ground, John with it – landing with a soft thump.

 

Then there was silence. Everything fell still. A momentary calm in the eye of a turbulent storm. The air hummed, restless energy vibrating through it – playing it tentatively like a finely tuned violin or bass. And had anyone been listening carefully enough, they may have recognised the sound for what it was. A foreboding sign of what was to come, a minor dip before the next thrill inducing peak – the silence before a sudden, deafening crescendo.

 

The next allegro leading to the final cadence.

 

Jenkins was the first to move – actions rapid, hasty, hurried…

 

His hands, warm and clammy, dropped away from Sherlock’s, tugging the gun from the detective’s now loose grip in one swift move. And he was already moving forward, rounding the table to check on the doctor’s still form, his foot clashing against the table leg in his eagerness to get there.

 

That was when Sherlock chose to act.

 

The detective sprung from his seat and across the table. Nimble fingers dragged at the man, wrestling him and pulling the gun from his grasp. But the man fought back.

 

The pair danced, a crude makeshift orchestra of noise, of falling chairs and heavy thumps, the music to their awkward waltz. Locked with one another, each vying for control of the gun until finally, it fell and skittered across the floor. Skittered back toward the table, back toward the fallen chair…

 

Sherlock raised a fist, aiming to strike the man as best he couldto give himself the upper hand. But cold metal pressed against his skin – forcefully causing him to lock his jaw as the muzzle rested firm against his cheek.

 

He paused.

 

Three guns… The one on the table was harmless but the one on the floor and the one in Jenkins’ hands were far from so.

 

“I could pull this trigger right now, Mr. Holmes,” Jenkins informed him, pushing it further into Sherlock’s jaw to prove his point. “You did lose the game after all.”

 

“I didn’t lose,” Sherlock drawled.

 

“Of course.” And the man let go of a sick laugh, twisted, almost metallic. “You’re alive – I guess that counts as a win.”

 

He lowered the gun but kept it trained on Sherlock, rounding the detective, crooked smile set firm upon his lips. “But I do doubt that Dr. Watson feels the same.”

 

The gun cocked and Sherlock shook his head, lips thinned. “You never did intend to allow either of us to leave here alive, did you?”

 

“You’re supposed to be a genius and you’re only just figuring that out?”

 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, quirking upward. “I’m merely confirming it for the sake of Dr. Watson’s conscience.”

 

And really, the man should have known. Even from where he had been standing, there should have been blood. There should have been something more than just a clatter and a thump.

 

He spun to face the doctor, gun swinging around with him, ready to aim, ready to shoot. But John was faster. John already had him in his sights and Jenkins, he was dead before he hit the ground.

 

And the music stopped. The strings silenced. The final quiver of a note fading away into a nothingness that seemed to hang in the air for several, long drawn out minutes. Though in truth, it was merely seconds, time still attempting to catch its breath after the sudden flurry of activity.

 

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t shoot,” Sherlock said finally, once time had finally caught up and his heart had stopped hammering inside his throat.

 

John fell back and stared up to the ceiling, gun still firmly in his grip. “You were in my way.”

 

It was another moment before Sherlock spoke again, his voice lower, soft almost – the edginess and arrogance faded. “Are you hurt?”

 

“Am I hurt? Oh, I’m just _fine_ – minor concussion most likely but then I guess that’s from being pushed back and hitting the ground.” The sarcasm was wrapped thick around the words, but so was the relief. It could have been so much worse and he knew it. Just as he had known moments before Sherlock had pulled the trigger, when he had felt the detective’s foot take up position on his chair, what Sherlock had planned. “You shot at me – you actually shot at me!”

 

“You were never in any danger – my timing was exact. I would not have done it had I believed it wouldn’t work.”

 

And John just couldn’t help but laugh. He was almost sure there was a compliment buried beneath those overconfident and haughty words and he took it. A smile slipping onto his face as he turned away from the ceiling and looked to Sherlock instead. His eyes fell closed and he let the euphoria wash over him – knowing they had both survived, yet again, making him just ever so slightly giddy. Or maybe that was just the after effects of the chloroform combined with the new addition of a knock to the back of his head.

 

But they were alive.

 

One standing, one lying, hearts racing from the adrenaline come down. Alive. That was what mattered.

 

\-----

 

It was sometime later – after the sirens and the flashing red and blue lights, after the medics and shock blankets, after Lestrade had questioned them and had finally decided that yes, a formal statement could wait until the morning – that the pair were finally in a taxi on their way back to 221b Baker Street.

 

John’s cane was laid over his lap and he stared down at it for the longest time, fingers wound loosely around each end. It brought back memories of before, a time when he could open the front door and not find himself being kidnapped left, right and bloody centre. A time when the most contact he had with his gun was when he was cleaning it. A time when he could have a nice normal night, watching a nice normal film without worrying about whether or not he would be alive for the next nice normal day.

 

A smile wound its way onto his lips, twisting up one corner just slightly more than the other. He didn’t miss those times in the slightest.

 

But he swallowed and abandoned his thoughts, turning his attention toward something else that had been plaguing him since the back of the flower shop. His eyes found Sherlock, the detective’s features lit by the passing streetlights, making them appear even more defined than normal.

 

“How did you know which gun to choose?” he asked eventually.

 

Sherlock shook his head, removing it from where it rested lightly against his hand so he could address John. “It was an educated guess.”

 

“You don’t guess.”

 

A short pause followed in which neither of them spoke. John grew impatient, testy.

 

“Sherlock–” he started, but the detective interrupted him, saving John the trouble of complaining further.

 

“You are a soldier and a doctor,” Sherlock explained, voice patient and light. “As such, you are accustomed to handling guns in extreme conditions and circumstances. Your hands are steady and dry – when in battle, you can’t afford for them not to be. If the gun were to slip in your hand…”

 

He didn’t need to say what would happen. The pair understood clearly the implications of such an action.

 

“What has that got to do with anything?” John shook his head ever so slightly, still not following his friend’s line of thoughts.

 

“His hands were the opposite… sweaty, clammy…”

 

“So…?”

 

“The gun you handled reflected the state of your hands. Dry gun – blank bullets.” And even John could make the unsaid connection. Clammy gun – real bullets.

 

“You mean to say, you chose the gun based on a hunch that I would have dry hands?” He let out a small laugh and glanced back out of the window, toward the London streets. Sherlock didn’t feel the need to point out that it was no hunch and that he just simply knew John.

 

“Brilliant,” the doctor added after a further moment, in that same tone that always brought a small smile to Sherlock’s lips and a confused crease to his brow.”Just brilliant.”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. His eyes sparkled from the praise and had he been the type to blush, his cheeks would have been tainted a gentle red. As it was, he just smiled and took the compliment in silence. It eased his mind just ever so slightly – though why his mind was so ill at rest in the first place was beyond him.

 

All he knew was that it had something to do with that uncomfortable feeling in his chest, the one that caused his voice to drop, low and uncertain as he spoke. “John,” he started, pausing until he was sure he had the other man’s attention. “You know that… you know I would never have-”

 

He swallowed. Sherlock, always so articulate, always so sure of himself in everything, struggled now. And though the thoughts were quite clear in his mind, how he was meant to word them out loud, that was the problem.

 

“I know,” John answered before the detective had a chance to finish.

 

Because, really, it didn’t need to be said. There was a silent understanding between the pair and neither needed to question it out loud because they both just knew. And that was enough.

 

“Good,” Sherlock said, swallowing once more before the smile returned to his lips. “Good.”

 

\-----

 

The next day had them falling into the now familiar routine of John guiding Sherlock, the cane abandoned once more. Though, Sherlock wasn’t quite so demanding as he had been – guilty, or so John believed anyway. Sherlock denied all knowledge of such an emotion of course, a dismissive wave of his hand ending the conversation before it could even start.

 

It was in the late afternoon, when they were finished up at Scotland Yard, that John discovered another possible reason for this.

 

“Mycroft called whilst you were giving your statement,” Sherlock informed the doctor, sounding bored at the very idea of having to relay the information.

 

They sat in a small café, Sherlock with his elbows rested on the table and chin rested on his interlocking fingers, and John with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him.

 

“Did he?” John asked, looking up from his food, fork stopping midway to his mouth.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock continued. “He wanted me to thank you for your concern over his wellbeing.”

 

John, unlike Sherlock, found he was often prone to blushing when embarrassed and as such, felt his cheeks burn along with the tips of his ears. His attention moved quickly back to his food. “Oh.”

 

“He also believed it was important that I remind you that his offer is still open.” Sherlock scoffed. “Apparently, my brother believes you should be compensated for ‘putting up with’ me.”

 

And here, John found himself sulking just ever so slightly, like an indignant child. “I don’t need his money.”

 

Sherlock shook his head and let out a low sigh. To him, the whole thing barely warranted the attention it was receiving, anything concerning Mycroft rarely did. “Don’t pull that face John,” he reprimanded. “I’m sure my brother didn’t intend to offend your honour or your pride. Any offence was meant purely for me.”

 

That just caused John to sink further into his seat. Fork light in his grasp, he dug at the scrambled eggs. “I’m not pulling a face,” he denied. But he wouldn’t deny that he was offended that Mycroft still believed he could buy John as surveillance for his brother.

 

“Yes, you are. Really, John, it makes you look like a child that’s just been told the tooth fairy isn’t real.”

 

The doctor raised his eyes, abandoning the fork on the table, and met Sherlock’s gaze. “How could you possibly know that?”

 

That was when he noticed that Sherlock was looking back at him. Not just looking in his direction but actually looking _at_ him, holding his gaze.

 

“You son of a… you mean to say, this whole time you’ve been able to see but you’ve still been making me lead you around – for nothing? How long? How long have you kept this quiet?”

 

But Sherlock was unfazed by the controlled anger hidden beneath John’s words. “It has been improving gradually since this morning. I’m hopeful that I will have recovered completely in no time.”

 

“And when were you planning on telling me this?”

 

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, bemused. “You’re a doctor – I had expected you would notice sooner or later.”

 

“Yes,” John nodded in agreement, “I _am_ a doctor. I’m not bloody psychic.”

 

Thin lips quirked at the corner and mischief lit up behind those grey-blue eyes. “Then take it as a lesson in observation.”

 

“A lesson in observation?” he repeated, incredulous. “You know, on second thoughts – compensation might actually be a good idea. I’m liking the sound of it more and more.”

 

But all Sherlock had to say in reply, with that sly little smile, amusement lining his tone, was, “Your tea is getting cold.”

 

Which just set John into a further sarcasm laced rant about how ‘observant’ it was for Sherlock to notice that and whether or not there was anything else Sherlock wanted to ‘observe’ whilst he was at it. And maybe antagonising the doctor further wasn’t the best idea but it didn’t matter to Sherlock because this… whatever _this_ was… was not boring.

 

It was right and just how things were meant to be, however twisted that may have seemed. His sight, he could have lived without. But this…

 

This…

 

“Well?” John demanded, evidently waiting for Sherlock’s next observation.

 

“I never said anything.”

 

“But you’re thinking it.”

 

And Sherlock just smiled and raised his cup to sip at his own tea.

 

This… he wasn’t quite sure he _could_ live without. Not now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks you for reading!


End file.
